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THE GARDEN OF LOVE 

FLOWERS GATHERED FROM THE POETS 



BY 

MAY BYRON 



HODDER AND STOUGHTON 

NEW YORK 

GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 






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PREFATORY NOTE 

" I ^HE following poems are arranged in a certain 
sequence, so that as far as possible, they may 
assimilate themselves to the order of Nature in a 
garden throughout the year. They have been 
selected to this end, and are, through the exigen- 
cies of the subject, mainly examples of that "lyrical 
cry" by which personal human emotion is ex- 
pressed in rhythm and rhyme. 

Though many of them are long familiar to the 
lover of English literature, and none appear for the 
first time, I believe this to be the most representative 
collection of love-poems that has hitherto been 
compiled. 

The reader can hardly fail to notice with surprise 
the extraordinary variety of style, thought, and 
treatment which is to be met with, in dealing with 
the single subject of Love in its different phases. 
And this, although several aspects of Love have 
purposely or of necessity been omitted. 



For kind permission to make use here of many 
copyright poems, I have to acknowledge the courtesy 
of The Sptxtator, The Outlook, The Pall Mall Gazette, 
and The Evening Standard. Thanks are due to 
Messrs. Smith Elder for their permission to inchide 
Robert Browning's poem " Greenwood Love " from 
Ferishtah's Fancies ; to the Houghton Mifflin Company 
for the same courtesy with regard to "Toujours 
Amour" (E. C. Stedman), "Bedouin Love Song" 
(Bayard Taylor), "She Came and Went" (J. R. 
Lowell), and "A Song of Content" (J. J. Piatt) : to 
Messrs. Little, Brown & Co., for the use of "At 
Last " (Helen Hunt Jackson). Also to Mrs. Katharine 
Tynan- Hinkson, Miss A. E. Gillington, Mr. Maurice 
Clare, and other authors, for allowing me to include 
various poems of theirs. 

In two or three cases I have found it impossible 
to trace the authorship of certain lines, and, there- 
fore, to the unknown writers I must hereb}- offer 

apologies and thanks. 

M. B. 



VI 



CONTENTS 

SPRING 

PAGE 

I. Dawn in the Garden 19 

(First Thoughts of Love] 

II. Spring Buds 31 

{The Wooing) 

III. The Flower of all Flowers . . .45 

{Portrait of the Beloved) 

IV. Shady Walks and Yew Hedges . . 65 

{Melancholy and Wistful Love) 
V. A Guest at the Gate . . . .81 

{Love Himself in Various Disguises) 
VI. The Children's Border . . . -93 
(Love of Mother and Child) 

SUMMER 

VII. May-time in the Garden .... 109 

{The Sweetness of Love) 
VIII. Old-Fashioned Blossoms . . . .121 

{Old-world Love-songs) 
IX. A Green Pleasance i33 

{Love of Friends) 
X. Night and the Nightingale . . . 145 

(Serenades) 
XI. Butterflies i57 

{Lighter Love Lyrics) 
vii 



AUTUMN 

PAGE 

XII. The Bower • • i77 

{The Ardent Lover) 

XIII. Song Birds and Late Roses . . -193 

{Little Lyrics of Happy Lovl ) 

XIV. Rosemary for Remembrance . . .209 

{Love in Absence) 
XV. Rue and Thyme and other Bitter Herbs 221 
{Love Reproachful and Cynical) 

XVI. Poppies . -39 

{Dreams) 

XVII. Rain and Wind . ' 251 

{The Doubts and Despairs of Love) 

XVIII. Ripened Fruits 265 

{The Happy Husband) 



WINTER 

XIX. A Bonfire 275 

(Love's Renunciation) 
XX. Faded Leaves and Withered Flowers. 289 

{Ashes of Love) 
XXI. A Bench in a Sunny Corner . . .301 
{Wedded Lovers Growing Old Together) 

XXII. Twilight and Autumn Violets . .311 

{Farewells) 

XXIII. Evergreens ...•••• 329 

{Love Strong as Death) 

XXIV. Lavender 345 

{Sweet Memories) 



INDEX 



PART I.— SPRING 



I. Love-thoughts 
II. The New Life 

III. My Day. 

IV. Endymion 

V. If this be Love 
VI. Madrigal 
VII. First Love . 
VIII. Starting from Paumanok 
IX. Hidden Love 
X. The Primrose 
XI. The Messenger 
XII. Love Looks for Love . 

XIII. One Word is too Often 

Profaned . 

XIV. A CavaHer's Wooing . 

XV. Because 
XVI. Untimely Love 
XVII. Love . . . . 
XVIII. The " Je ne sais quoi " . 
XIX. The Perfection of Her . 
XX. A Nut-Brown Maid 
XXI. She was a Phantom of 

Delight 
XXII. My Sweet Sweeting 
ix 



Lord Houghton 
Dante Alighiert 
Lord Tennyson 
H. W. Longfellow 
George Lyttlcton 
Marston Moore 
Samncl Daniel 
Walt Whitman 
John Donne . 
Thomas Carew 
Lord Tennyson 
Robert Herrick 



PAGE 

• 23 
. 24 

• 25 
. 26 
. 27 
. 28 
. 29 

• 29 

• 30 

• 33 

• 33 

• 35 



P.B.Shelley . . 35 
The Marqnis of 

Montrose . . 36 

Edward Fitzgerald . 37 

Author Unknown . 39 

S. T. Coleridge . 40 

William Whitehead 47 

Dante Alighieri . 48 

Miisica Transalpina 48 

Wm. Wordsworth . 49 

Sir J. Hawkins . 50 









PAGE 


XXIII 


She Walks in Beauty 


' Lord Byron . 


51 


XXIV. 


Her Face . 


Philip Rossetter 


52 


XXV. 


V^ho is the Maid ? . 


Thomas Moore 


53 


XXVI. 


The Only She . 


John Dowland 


54 


XXVII. 


Her Right Name . 


Matthew Prior 


55 


XXVIII. 


Description of such a 
One as he could 








Love 


Sir Thomas Wyatt . 


56 


XXIX. 


Annie Laurie . 


Lady John Scott . 


57 


XXX. 


So White, so Soft, so 








Sweet is She . 


Ben Jonson 


58 


XXXI. 


Whom I Love . 


William Browne . 


59 


XXXII. 


A Steadfast Mind . 


Thomas Carew 


60 


XXXIII. 


Praise of my Lady . 


William Morris 


61 


XXXIV. 


The Lover beseecheth 


I 






his Mistress . 


Sir Thomas Wyatt . 


67 


XXXV. 


Inclusions . 


E. B. Browning 


68 


XXXVI. 


Tenebrae . 


Thomas Campion . 


69 


XXXVII. 


From the Arabic 


P. B. Shelley . 


70 


XXXVIII. 


To Electra 


Robert Herrick 


70 


XXXIX. 


Auld Robin Gray 


Lady Anne Barnard 


71 


XL. 


Love Untold 


Joanna Baillie 


73 


XLI. 


At Last . 


Helen Hnnt Jackson 


74 


XLII. 


Sorrow 


Richard Crashaw . 


76 


XLIII. 


Come, Rest in this 








Bosom . 


Thomas- Moore 


77 


XLIV. 


Foreknowledge 


John Donne . 


77 


XLV. 


Too Late . 


Matthew Arnold . 


78 


XLVI. 


A Dying Fall . 


Thomas Campion . 


79 


XL VI I. 


The Banks o' Doon . 


Robert Burns . 


79 


XLVIII. 


True and False Love 


William Blake 


80 


XLIX. 


The Ungentle Guest Robert Herrick 


83 


L. 


The Wayfarer . 


Dante Alighicri 


84 


LI. 


What the Mighty 








Love has Done 


John Fletcher 


85 



LII 


Upon Cupid 


Robed Hcrrick 


PAGE 

86 


LIII. 


Hush, Hush ! . 


Thomas Moore 


87 


LIV 


Love will Find out Seventeaith Century 






the Way 


Poem . 


87 


LV. 


The Mariner . 


William Byrd 


89 


LVI. 


Love, like a Gypsy . 


Robert Herrick 


90 


LVII. 


Love's Treachery . 


Robert Greene 


90 


LVIII. 


Love the Conqueror . 


May Byron 


91 


LIX. 


The Shower of Blos- 








soms 


Robert Herrick 


92 


LX. 


At Bay . 


May Byron 


. 95 


LXI. 


A Cradle Song . 


William Blake 


97 


LXII. 


The Goal . 


Maurice Clare 


98 


LXIII. 


The Mother's Lullaby 


Author Unknown 


99 


LXIV. 


Mothering Sunday . 


M. C. Gillin^ton 


99 


LXV. 


A Slumber Song 


William Blake 


. lOI 


LXVI. 


The Wood Song 


May Byron 


102 


LXVII. 


Parental Recollec- 








tions 


Mary Lamb . 


103 


LXVIII. 


Two Against Fate . 


May Byron 


. 104 


LXIX. 


Cawn Bawn Dheelish 


Maurice Clare 


. 107 



PART IL— SUMMER 



LXX. 


In May 


Alice E. Gillington 


113 


LXXL 


Three Kisses . 


E. B. Browning 


115 


LXXH. 


Love Me if I Love . 


Barry Cornwall 


115 


Lxxin. 


Greenwood Love 


Robert Browning 


116 


LXXIV. 


The Posie . 


Robert Burns . 


117 


LXXV. 


Garden Fancies 


Robert Browning 


119 


LXXVL 


Since First I Saw 








Your Face . 


Thomas Ford . 


123 


LXXVH. 


Phillida's Love-call to 








her Cory don . 

xi 


Ignoto 


124 



AGE 

LXXVIII. An Odd Conceit . Nicholas Breton . 126 
LXXIX. The Bailiff's Daugh- 
ter of Islington . Old Ballad . . 127 
LXXX. The Singing Shep- 
herd . . . John Wootton . 129 
LXXXI. Madrigal . . . J^ohn Wilhyc . 130 
LXXXII. A Dialogue between 

Him and His Heart W. Davidson . 130 
LXXXin. The Praise of Love . Tobias Hume . 132 
LXXXIV. The Friendship- 
Flower . . . Lord Houghton . 135 
LKXXV. The Meeting of the 

Waters . . . Thomas Moore . 136 
LXXXVI. The Best of Friends . Author Unknown. 137 
LXXXVn. I Saw in Louisiana . Walt Whitman . 137 
LXXXVHL To a Friend . . Katherine Philips 138 
LXXXIX. A Temple to Friend- 
ship . . . Thomas Moore . 139 
XC, Friendship . . R. W. Emerson . 140 
XCL Farewell! — butwhen- 
ever you Welcome 

the Hour . . Thomas Moore . 141 
XCn. Of the Terrible Doubt 

of Appearances . JValt Whitman . 142 
XCni. The Night Piece . Robert Herrick . 147 
XCIV. Cleveland's Serenade Sir Walter Scott . 148 
XCV. Now Sleeps the Crim- 
son Petal . , Lord Tennyson . 149 
XCVL While She lies Sleep- 
ing . . . yohn Dowland . 149 
XCVn. Bedouin Love Song . Bayard Taylor . 150 
XCVHL Spanish Serenade . H. W. Longfellow 151 
XCIX. An Elizabethan Sere- 
nade . . . Sir Philip Sidney 152 
C. Were I a Drop of Dew Maurice Clare . 154 
xii 



CI. 


Indian Serenade 


P.B.Shelley . 


154 


CII. 


The Clown's Song . 


Wm. Shakespeare . 


159 


cm. 


Song by a Person of 








Quality . 


Lord Peterborough . 


160 


CIV. 


Phillis is My only 








Joy ... 


Sir Charles Sedley . 


161 


CV. 


Love-Thoughts . 


Lord Houghton 


162 


CVI. 


The Promise . 


William Byrd 


163 


CVII. 


Last May a Braw 








Wooer . 


Robert Burns . 


163 


CVIII. 


The Dissembler 


Matthew Prior 


165 


CIX. 


V^hen Love is Kind. 


Thomas Moore 


166 


ex. 


A Hymn to Love 


Robert Herrick 


167 


CXI. 


Sympathy 


Reginald Heber 


167 


CXI I. 


The Stolen Heart . 


Sir John Suckling . 


169 


CXIII. 


Dear Fanny 


Thomas Moore 


170 


CXIV. 


The Deceiver . 


W. S. Landor 


170 


CXV. 


Phillida Flouts Me . 


Seventeenth Century 








Poem . 


171 


CXVI. 


Tarn Glen 


Robert Burns . 


172 


CXVII. 


The Despairing Lover William Walsh 


173 


CXVI 1 1. 


Thought from Catul- 








lus . 


Robert Lloyd . 


175 


CXIX. 


Cean Dubh Dheelish 


Sir Samuel Ferguson 


179 


cxx. 


To Celia . 


Ben Jonson 


180 


CXXI. 


There's a Woman like 








a Dew-drop . 


Robert Browning . 


180 


CXXII. 


Faith's Avowal 


John Dowland 


181 


CXXIII. 


Love's Philosophy . 


P. B. Shelley . 


182 


CXXIV. 


To Anthea 


Robert Herrick 


183 


cxxv. 


Maid of Athens 


Lord Byron . 


184 


CXXVI. 


Come, Come ! 


Thomas Campion . 


185 


cxx VI I. 


Love Inveterate 


J. Sylvester . 


185 


CXXVIII. 


O Wert Thou in the 








Cauld Blast . 


Robert Burns 


186 



CXXIX. 


A Man's Require 








ments . 


E. B. Browning 


187 


cxxx. 


How Many Times ? 


T. L. Beddoes . 


188 


CXXXI. 


Life in a Love 


Robert Browning 


189 


CXXXII. 


Ask Me no More . 


Lord Tennyson 


190 


CXXXI 1 1. 


A Red, Red Rose . 


Robert Burns . 


191 



PART in.— AUTUMN 



CXXXI V. 


A Birthday . 


Christina Rossetti 


. 197 


cxxxv. 


The Time of Roses 


Thomas Hood 


. 198 


CXXXVI. 


The Tryst 


Jean Ingelow . 


. 198 


CXXXVII. 


Love's Bird . 


Katharine Tynan 


. 200 


cxxx VIII. 


Finland Love Song 


Thomas Moore 


. 201 


CXXXI X. 


Were I a Cloudlet . 


May Byron 


. 202 


CXL. 


Only V^e 


Lord Houghton 


. 202 


CXLI. 


To Althea, from 








Prison . 


Richard Lovelace 


. 203 


CXLII. 


The Monopolist 


Thomas Moore 


. 204 


CXLIII. 


This Heart 0' Mine 


Maurice Clare 


. 204 


CXLIV. 


The Summit . 


P.B.Shelley . 


. 205 


CXLV. 


She is Mine . 


Thomas Campion 


. 206 


CXLVI. 


I'd Mourn the Hopes 


Thomas Moore 


. 206 


CXLVII. 


The Stewardship . 


M. C. Gillington 


. 207 


CXLVI 1 1. 


Alter Ego 


Author Unknown 


. 211 


CXLIX. 


The Lonely Road . 


W. S. Landor . 


. 212 


CL. 


In Three Days 


Robert Browning 


. 212 


CLI. 


You and the Spring 


Wm. Shakespeare 


. 214 


CLII. 


Wandering Willie . 


Robert Burns . 


. 214 


CLIII. 


Memory . 


William Browne 


• 215 


CLIV. 


The Anxious Lover 


Sir Philip Sidney 


. 216 


CLV. 


Love in Absence . 


Katherine Tynan 


. 217 


CLVI. 


Absence . 


Richard J ago 


. 218 


CLVII. 


Separation 


W. S. Landor. 


. 218 


CLVI 1 1 


If . . . 


S. T. Coleridge 


. 218 









PAGE 


CLIX. 


Remembrance 


Win. Shakespeare 


219 


CLX. 


The Pilgrimage . 


Sir Walter Raleigh 


223 


CLXI. 


The Triumph 


Thomas Campion 


225 


CLXII. 


The Mournful Moon 


Sir Philip Sidney 


225 


CLXIII 


Change upon 








Change 


E. B. Browning 


226 


CLXIV. 


Kind are Her 








Answers 


Thomas Campion 


227 


CLXV. 


Perjury Excused . 


Wni. Shakespeare 


228 


CLXVI. 


The Eternal Femi- 








nine 


Tobias Smollett 


228 


CLXVII. 


A Dirge . 


Sir Philip Sidney 


229 


CLXVI 1 1. 


Where did you 
Borrow that Last 








Sigh? . 


Sir Wm. Berkeley 


231 


CLXIX. 


Love Disposed of . 


T. L. Bed does . 


231 


CLXX. 


To Cloe . 


Thomas Moore 


233 


CLXXI. 


I was in Love 


Robert Jones . 


233 


CLXXII. 


What Care I ? 


George Wither 


235 


CLXXIII. 


When I Loved You 


Thomas Moore 


236 


CLXXI V. 


The Prediction 


Thomas Campion 


237 


CLXXV. 


Longing. 


Matthew Arnold 


241 


CLXXVI. 


The House of Love 


Marston Moore 


242 


CLXXVII. 


The Traveller's 








Dreams 


P. B. Shelley . 


243 


CLXXVI 11. 


The Turret . 


May Byron 


243 


CLXXIX. 


Dream-Love . 


Christina Rossetti 


244 


CLXXX. 


The One Dream 


W. S. Landor. 


• 247 


CLXXXI. 


Reincarnation 


Maurice Clare 


247 


CLXXXII. 


In a Dream . 


M. C. Gillington 


249 


CLXXXI 1 1. 


Echo 


Christina Rossetti 


249 


CLXXXIV. 


The Lover Com- 








plaineth 


Sir Thomas Wyatt 


253 


CLXXXV. 


When the Lamp is 








Shattered . 


P. B. Shelley . 


255 




XV 













PAGE 


CLXXXVI. 


Levvti . 


S. T. Colcrid_^c 


. 256 


CLXXXVII. 


Edward Gray 


Lord Tennyson 


. 259 


CLXXXVIII. 


Two in the Cam- 








pagna . . 


Robert Browning 


. 261 


CLXXXIX. 


Sometimes with 








One I Love . 


Walt Whitman 


.264 


CXC. 


The Anniversary . 


John Donne . 


. 267 


CXCI. 


The Happy Hus- 








band . 


S. T. Coleridge 


. 268 


CXCII. 


The Exchange . 


Sir Philip Sidney 


. 269 


CXCIII. 


Love and Nature . 


Lord Houghton 


. 269 


CXCIV. 


You . 


Robert Browning 


. 270 


cxcv. 


A Song of Content 


John James Piatt 


. 271 


CXCVI. 


To His Wife, with 








a Ring 


Samuel Bishop 


. 271 


CXCVII. 


Home . 


Dora Greenwell 


. 273 



PART IV.— WINTER 

CXCVI n. Give all to Love . R. W. Emerson . 279 
CXCIX. The King's Cup- 
bearer . May Byron . .281 
CC. The Last Ride 

Together . . Robert Browning . 282 
CCI. The Ever-fixed 

Mark. . . Wm. Shakespeare . 286 
ecu. One Way of Love Robert Browning . 287 
CCIII. Separation . . Matthew Arnold . 291 
CCIV. When we Two 

Parted . . Lord Byron . .291 
CCV. In a Year . . Robert Browning . 293 
CCVI. When Passion's 
Trance is Over- 
past . . . P.B. Shelley . 296 
xvi 



CCVII. In a Drear-Nighted 

December . . John Keats 
CCVIII. The Time Will 



297 





Come . 


May Byron 


. 298 


CCIX 


A Parting 


Michael Drayton 


. 298 


ccx. 


A Dead March 


M. C. Gillington 


• 299 


CCXI 


Love's House . 


Katharine Tynan 


• 303 


CCXII. 


Wrinkles 


W.S.Landor. 


• 303 


CCXIII 


The Refuge . 


Maurice Clare 


• 304 


CCXIV. 


Autumnal Beauty . 


John Donne . 


305 


CCXV. 


John Anderson, My 








Jo . . . 


Robert Burns . 


. 306 


CCXVI 


To Biancha . 


Robert Herrick 


• 307 


CCXVII. 


Unchanging Love 


Thomas Moore 


307 


CCXVI II. 


Immortal Youth . 


IVm. Shakespeare 


308 


CCXIX. 


Toujours Amour . 


E. C. Stedman 


308 


ccxx. 


The Measurement . 


E. B. Broivnino 


310 


CCXXI. 


Remain, ah ! not in 








Youth Alone 


IV. S. Landor . 


310 


CCXXII. 


Then Fare Thee 








well . 


Thomas Moore 


313 


CCXXIII. 


Exit 


Wm. Shakespeare 


314 


CCXXIV. 


The Lost Mistress . 


Robert Browning 


315 


CCXXV. 


Highland Mary 


Robert Burns . 


316 


CCXXVI. 


Love's Secret . 


William Blake 


317 


CCXXVII. 


Four Years . 


D. M. Mulock . 


318 


CCXXVIII. 


The Sailing of the 








Sword . 


William Morris 


319 


CCXXIX. 


A Valediction 


E. B. Browning 


321 


ccxxx. 


We Two Together 


Walt Whitman 


322 


ccxxxi. 


Farewell to Nancy . 


Robert Burns . 


326 


CCXXXII. 


Farewell ! If Ever 








Fondest Prayer . 


Lord Byron . 


327 


CCXXXIII. 


The Blessed Damo- 








zel . . . 


D. G. Rossetti . 


331 




xvii 







CCXXXIV. 


At the Mid Hour 








of Night . 


Thomas Moore 


337 


ccxxxv. 


Evelyn Hope 


Robert Browning 


. 337 


CCXXXVI. 


A Spirit Present . 


D.M.Muloch. 


340 


CCXXXVII. 


Remembrance 


Emily Bronte . 


• 341 


CCXXXVIII 


The Cross Roads . 


May Byron 


• 343 


CCXXXIX. 


The Memory of 








Love 


Lord Houghton 


347 


CCXL. 


You Remain 


Author Unlinown 


347 


CCXLI. 


Sighs and Memo- 








ries . 


Dante Alighieri 


348 


CCXLII. 


Parted and Met . 


Lord Houghton 


349 


CCXLIII. 


Love's Young 








Dream 


Tlioiuas Moore 


349 


CCXLI V. 


My Kate 


E. B. Browning 


350 


CCXLV. 


One Day 


Christina Rossetti 


352 


CCXLVI. 


Rose Aylmer 


W. S. Lauder . 


353 


CCXLVII. 


She Came and 








Went 


J. R. Lowell . 


354 


CCXLVI 1 1. 


My Letters . 


E. B. Browning 


355 


CCXLIX. 


Golden Guendolen 


William Morris 


355 


CCL. 


Durisdeer 


Lady John Scott 


356 


CCLI. 


Once More . 


Lord Tennyson 


357 


CCLII. 


The Mother's 








Visits 


D. M. Mulock . 


358 


CCLIII. 


Memory 


Christina Rossetti 


359 


CCLIV. 


The Vista . 


Author Unknown 


360 


CCLV. 


Echoes and Me- 








mories 


P. B. Shelley . 


360 







I. 

Dawn in the Garden 

Firs/ Thoughts of Lm'e 



I 

T T E was not yet in love, but very near ... for 
^ ^ he thanked God that He had made such 
beautiful beings to walk this earth. . . . O, there is 
nothing holier in this life of ours, than the first 
consciousness of love — the first fluttering of its 
silken wings — the first sound and breath of that 
wind which is so soon to sweep through the soul ! 
H. W. Longfellow, " Hyperion." 




I. Love-thoughts 



J- 



A LL fair things have soft approaches, 
^^^ Quiet steps are still the sure ; 
It were hard to point aright 
At what instant morning light, 
Shy and solemn-paced, encroaches 
On the desolate obscure ; — 
Who can read the growth of flowers 
Syllable by syllable? 
Who has sight or ear to tell. 
Or by moments or by hours. 
At what rate the sappy tree 
Full of life, and life in spring, 
Every sleekest limb embosses 
With the buds its vigour glosses, — 
At what rate the buds with glee 
Burst, and show the tender wing 
Of the leaf that hardly dares 
Trust to inexperienced airs ? 
Who can measure out the pace 
Of the smiles on Nature's face ? 
23 



Thou loveliest of the thoughts of God, 

Creation's antitype and end ! 

Thou treadest so the vernal sod 

That slimmest grasses hardly bend;-- 

I feel thy presence sensible 

On my ideal supervene, 

Yet just the moment cannot tell 

That lies those two bright states between : — 

No memory has an arm to reach 

The morning-twilight of our thought, — 

The infant's use of sight and speech 

Is all unchallenged and unsought ; 

And yet thou askest, winning one, 

That I should now unriddler be, 

To tell thee when I first begun 

To love and honour Thee ! 

Lord Houghton. 

II. The New Life J' ^ J^ J^ ^ 

I FELT a spirit of love begin to stir 
Within my heart, long time unfelt till then ; 
And saw Love coming towards me fair and fain, 
(That I scarce knew him for his joyful cheer), 
Saying, "Be now indeed my worshipper !" 

And in his speech he laughed and laughed again. 
Then, while it was his pleasure to remain, 
I chanced to look the way he had drawn near. 
And saw the Ladies Joan and Beatrice 
Approach me, this the other following, 
24 






V 



■Mm 












^■^^■■'?to. 










in<^ 



One and a second marvel instantly. 
And even as now m}^ memory speaketh this, 
Love spake it then : " The first is christened Spring ; 
The second Love, she is so like to me," 

Dante Alighieri, trans. D. G. Rossetti. 

III. My Day Ji Ji> Jt, j. jt, j, 

r~\ LET the sohd ground 
^^ Not fail beneath my feet 
Before my life has found 

What some have found so sweet ; 
Then let come what come may. 
What matter if I go mad, 
I shall have had my day. 

Let the sweet heavens endure, 
Nor close and darken above me, 

Before I am quite sure 
That there is one to love me ; 

Then let come what come may 

To a life that has been so sad, 

I shall have had my day. 

Lont Tennyson. 



Tlic Garden of Loi 



IV. Endymion ^ J- J- ^ ^ ^ 



T 



HE rising moon has hid the stars; 
Her level rays, like golden bars, 
Lie on the landscape green, 
With shadows brown between. 



And silver white the river gleams. 
As if Diana, in her dreams, 

Had dropt her silver bow 

Upon the meadows low. 

On such a tranquil night as this 

She woke Endymion with a kiss. 

When, sleeping in the grove. 

He dreamed not of her love. 

Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought, 
Love gives itself, but is not bought ; 
Nor voice, nor sound betrays 
Its deep, impassioned gaze. 

It comes — the beautiful, the free, 
The crown of all humanity — 

In silence and alone 

To seek the elected one. 

It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep 
Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep, 
And kisses the closed eyes 
Of him who slumbering lies. 
26 



O weary hearts ! O slumbering eyes ! 
O drooping souls, whose destinies 

Are fraught with fear and pain, 

Ye shall be loved again ! 

No one is so accursed by fate, 
No one so utterly desolate, 

But some heart, though unknown, 

Responds unto his own : 

Responds — as if, with unseen wings, 
An angel touched its quivering strings ; 
And whispers, in its song, 
" Where hast thou stayed so long ? " 
H. IV. Longfellow. 



V. If this be Love? J- J> J, j, 

^1 THEN Delia on the plain appears 
^ ^ Aw'd by a thousand tender fears, 
I would approach, but dare not move : 
Tell me, my heart, if this be love ? 

Whene'er she speaks, my ravish'd ear 
No other voice but hers can hear. 
No other wit but hers approve : 
Tell me, my heart, if this be love ? 

If she some other youth commend, 
Though I was once his fondest friend, 

27 



His instant enemy I prove : 

Tell me, my heart, if this be love ? 

When she is absent, I no more 
Delight in all that pleas'd before, 
The clearest spring, or shadiest grove : 
Tell me, my heart, if this be love ? 

When, fond of power, of beauty vain, 
Her nets she spread for every swain, 
I strove to hate, but vainly strove : 
Tell me, my heart, if this be love ? 

George Lyttleton. 

VI. Madrigal J' Jk J> Jt, ^ jk 

nPHE rooks are seeking in wood and waste 
-^ The rafter-stuff for their robber castles ; 
The hazel boughs in a fever of haste 
Hang out their tassels. 

The clouds go by like a fleece of wool; 

The rills, at end of their frozen waiting 
Scamper and chuckle : the air is full 

Of courting and mating. 

But my heart, like a little lost child astray. 

It cries and bewails, with no one to mind it : 
Sweeter than spring ! When you come this way, 
Could you but find it ! 

Marston Moore. 
28 



VII. First Love J- J' ^ J^ J^ 

A H ! I remember well (and how can I 
^ ^ But evermore remember well ?) when first 
Our flame began, when scarce we knew what was 
The flame we felt ; when as we sat and sighed 
And looked upon each other, and conceived 
Not what we ail'd — yet something we did ail ; 
And yet were well, and yet we were not well, 
And what was our disease we could not tell. 
Then would we kiss, then sigh, then look ; and 

thus 
In that first garden of our simpleness 
We spent our childhood. But when years began 
To reap the fruit of knowledge, ah, how then 
Would she with graver looks, with sweet stern 

brow 
Check my presumption and my forwardness ? 
Yet still would give me flowers, still would me 

show 
What she would have me, yet not have me know. 

Samuel Daniel. 



VIII. Starting from Paumanok ^ 

AT THAT do you seek so pensive and silent? 

' • What do you need camerado ? 
Dear son, do you think it is love ? 
29 



Listen, dear son — listen, America, daughter or son. 
It is a painful thing to love a man or woman to 

excess, and yet it satisfies, it is great, 
But there is something else very great, it makes 

the whole coincide, 
It, magnificent, beyond materials, with continuous 

hands sweeps and provides for all. 

Walt IVhitman. 

IX. Hidden Love J^ J^ ^ J^ Ji 

T F, as I have, you also do 
■'^ Virtue in woman see. 
And dare love that, and say so too, 
And forget the He and She — 

And if this love, though placed so, 
From profane men you hide, 

Which will no faith on this bestow 
Or, if they do, deride — 

Then you have done a braver thing 

Than all the worthies did ; 
And a braver thence will spring, 

Which is, to keep that hid. 

^ohn Donne. 



3c 



II. spring Buds 

The Wooi?zg 



II 

THAT stage of courtship, which makes the most 
exquisite moment of youth, the freshest blossom- 
time of passion — when each is sure of the other's 
love, but no formal declaration has been made, and 
all is mutual divination, exalting the most trivial 
word, the lightest gesture, with thrills delicate as 
wafted jasmine scent. 

George Eliot, "The Mill on the Floss." 



m ,^ft^5 




K^ 



X. The Primrose 



'^ t^ 



A SK me why I send you here 
-^^ This firsUing of the infant year ; 
Ask me why I send to you 
This primrose all bepearl'd with dew ; 
I straight will whisper in your ears, 
The sweets of love are wash'd with tears ; — 
Ask me why this flower doth show 
So yellow, green, and sickly too ; 
Ask me why the stalk is weak. 
And bending, yet it doth not break ; 
I must tell you, these discover 
What doubts and fears are in a lover. 

Thomas Carew. 



XI. The Messenger Ji J^ ^ ^ Ji 

O SWALLOW, Swallow, flying, flying South, 
Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, 
And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee. 
33 



O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each, 
That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, 
And dark and true and tender is the North. 

O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and 
light 
Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill, 
And cheep and twitter twenty million loves. 

O were I thou that she might take me in. 
And lay me on her bosom, and her heart 
Would rock the snowy cradle till I died. 

Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with 
love. 
Delaying as the tender ash delays 
To clothe herself, when all the woods are green ? 

O tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown : 
Say to her, I do but wanton in the South, 
But in the North long since my nest is made. 

O tell her, brief is life but love is long, 
And brief the sun of summer in the North, 
And brief the moon of beauty in the South. 

O Swallow, flying from the golden woods. 
Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her 

mine, 
And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee. 

Lord Tennyson. 
34 



XII. To Electra J' J- J' J- ^ 
Love looks for Love. 

LOVE, love begets ; then never be 
Unsoft to him who's smooth to thee : 
Tygers and beares, I've heard some say, 
For profer'd love, will love repay ; 
None are so harsh, but if they find 
Softnesse in others, will be kind : 
Affection will affection move, 
Then you must like, because I love. 

Robert Herrick. 

XIII. To e^ e^ ^ e^ .* 

ONK word is too often profaned 
F'or me to profane it, 
One feeling too falsely disdained 

For thee to disdain it ; 
One hope is too like despair 
For prudence to smother ; 
And pity from thee more dear 
Than that from another. 

I can give not what men call love, 

But wilt thou accept not 
The worship the heart lifts above. 

And the Heavens reject not, — 
The desire of the moth for the star, 
35 



Of the night for the morrow^ 
The devotion to something afar 
From the sphere of our sorrow ? 

Percy ByssJie Shelley. 



XIV. A Cavalier's Wooing J' ^ Jf 

1\ /TY dear and only love, I pray 
iVX This noble world of thee 
Be governed by no other sway 

But purest monarchy ; 
But if confusion have a part, 

Which virtuous souls abhor, 
And hold a synod in thy heart, 

I'll never love thee more. 

As Alexander I will reign. 

And I will reign alone ; 
My thoughts shall evermore disdain 

A rival on my throne. 
He either fears his fate too much. 

Or his deserts are small, 
Who puts it not unto the touch. 

To win or lose it all. 

But if thou wilt be constant then 

And faithful of thy word, 
I'll make thee glorious by my pen, 

And famous by my sword ; 
36 



I'll serve thee in such noble wa37S, 

Was never heard before ; 
I'll deck and crown thee all with bays, 

And love thee evermore. 

The Marquis of Montrose. 

XV. Because J> J' J' J' ^ ^ 

SWEET NEA!— for your lovely sake 
I weave these rambling numbers, 
Because I've lain an hour awake, 

And can't compose my slumbers ; 
Because your beauty's gentle light 

Is round my pillow beaming, 
And flings, I know not why, to-night. 
Some witchery round my dreaming. 

Because we've passed some joyous days. 

And danced some merry dances; 
Because we love old Beaumont's plays, 

And old Froissart's romances ! 
Because whene'er I hear your words. 

Some pleasant feeling lingers ; 
Because I think your heart has chords 

That vibrate to your fingers 1 

Because you've got those long, soft curls 
I've sworn should deck my goddess; 

Because you're not, like other girls, 
All bustle, blush, and bodice ! 
37 



Because your eyes are deep and blue, 

Your fingers long and rosy ; 
Because a little child and you 

Would make one's home so cosy 

Because your little tiny nose 

Turns up so pert and funny ; 
Because I know you choose your beaux 

More for their mirth than money ; 
Because I think you'd rather twirl 

A waltz, with me to guide you. 
Than talk small nonsense with an earl, 

And a coronet beside you ! 

Because you don't object to walk, 

And are not given to fainting-; 
Because you have not learnt to talk 

Of flowers and Poonah-painting ; 
Because I think you'd scarce refuse 

To sew one on a button ; 
Because I know you'd sometimes choose 

To dine on simple mutton ! 

Because I think I'm just so weak 

As, some of those fine morrows. 
To ask you if you'll let me speak. 

My story — and my sorrows ; 
Because the rest's a simple thing, 

A matter quickly over, 
A church — a priest — a sigh — a ring — 

And a chaise and four to Dover. 

Edward Fitzgerald. 
38 



XVI. Untimely Love J- ^ J> 

T AST Sunday at St. James's prayers, 

The prince and princess by, 
I, drest in all my whale-bone airs, 

Sat in a closet nigh. 
I bow'd my knees, I held my book, 

Read all the answers o'er ; 
But was perverted by a look. 

Which pierced me from the door. 
High thoughts of Heaven I came to use, 

With the devoutest care ; 
Which gay young Strephon made me lose, 

And all the raptures there. 
He stood to hand me to my chair. 

And bow'd with courtly grace ; 
But whisper'd love into my ear, 

Too warm for that grave place. 
" Love, love," said he, ** by all adored. 

My tender heart has won." 
But I grew peevish at the word, 

And bade he would be gone. 
He went quite out of sight, while I 

A kinder answer meant ; 
Nor did I for my sins that day 

By half so much repent. 

Author Unknown. 



39- 



XVII. Love e^ J* e^ e^ e^ 

A LL thoughts, all passions, all delights, 
-^^ Whatever stirs this mortal frame, 
All are but ministers of Love, 
And feed his sacred flame. 

Oft in my waking dreams do I 
Live o'er again that happy hour. 
When midway on the mount I lay, 
Beside the ruined tower. 

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, 
Had blended with the lights of eve ; 
And she was there, my hope, my joy, 
My own dear Genevieve ! 

She leaned against the armed man ; 
The statue of the armed knight ; 
She stood and listened to my lay 
Amid the lingering light. 

Few sorrows hath she of her own, 
My hope, my joy, my Genevieve ! 
She loves me best, whene'er I sing 
The songs that make her grieve. 

I played a soft and doleful air, 
I sang an old and moving story — 
An old rude song, that suited well 
That ruin wild and hoary. 
40 



She listened with a flitting bhish, 
With downcast eyes and modest grace ; 
For well she knew, I could not choose 
But gaze upon her face. 

I told her of the Knight that wore 
Upon his shield a burning brand ; 
And that for ten long years he wooed 
The Lady of the Land. 

I told her how he pined : and ah ! 
The deep, the low, the pleading tone 
With which I sang another's love, 
Interpreted my own. 

She listened with a flitting blush, 
With downcast eyes, and modest grace ; 
And she forgave me, that I gazed 
Too fondly on her face ! 

But when I told the cruel scorn 
That crazed the bold and lovely Knight, 
And that he crossed the mountain-woods. 
Nor rested day nor night ; 

That sometimes from the savage den, 
And sometimes from the darksome shade, 
And sometimes starting up at once 
In green and sunny glade, — 

41 



There came and looked him in the face 
An angel beautiful and bright ; 
And that he knew it was a Fiend, 
This miserable Knight ! 

And that unknowing what he did. 
He leaped amid a murderous band, 
And saved from outrage worse than death 
The Lady of the Land— 

And how she wept and clasped his knee 
And how she tended him in vain — 
And ever strove to expiate 

The scorn that crazed his brain — 

And that she nursed him in a cave ; 
And how his madness went away. 
When on the yellow forest-leaves 
A dying man he lay ! 

His dying words — but when I reached 
That tenderest strain of all the ditty. 
My faltering voice and pausing harp 
Disturbed her soul with pity ! 

All impulses of soul and sense 
Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve : 
The music and the doleful tale. 
The rich and balmy eve ; 
42 



And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, 
An undistinguishable throng, 
And gentle wishes long subdued. 
Subdued and cherished long ! 

She wept with pity and delight, 
She blushed with love and virgin shame ; 
And like the murmur of a dream, 
I heard her breathe my name. 

Her -bosom heaved — she stepped aside. 
As conscious of my look she stept — 
Then suddenly with timorous eye 
She fled to me and wept. 

She half enclosed me with her arms. 
She pressed me with a meek embrace ; 
And bending back her head, looked up 
And gazed upon my face. 

'Twas partly love and partly fear, 
And partly 'twas a bashful art, 
That I might rather feel than see, 
The swelling of her heart. 

I calmed her fears, and she was calm, 
And told her love with virgin pride ; 
And so I won my Genevieve, 

My bright and beauteous Bride. 

S. T. Coleridge. 



43 



111. The Flower of all Flowers 

Portrait of the Beloved 



Ill 

npHUS there was not one discordant thing in her : 
-*- but a perfect harmony of figure, and face, and 
soul — in a word, of the whole being. And he who 
had a soul to comprehend hers, must of necessit}^ 
love her, and love no other woman for evermore. 
H. W. Longfellow, " Hyperion." 










XVIII. The "Je ne sals Quoi" J' ^ 

YES, I'm in love, I feel it now, 
And Celia has undone me ; 
And yet I'll swear I can't tell how 
The pleasing plague stole on me. 

'Tis not her face which love creates. 

For there no graces revel ; 
'Tis not her shape, for there the Fates 

Have rather been uncivil. 

'Tis not her air, for sure in that 

There's nothing more than common ; 

And all her sense is only chat 
Like any other woman. 

Her voice, her touch, might give th' alarm — 
'Twas both perhaps, or neither ; 

In short, 'twas that provoking charm 
Of Ceha altogether. 

William W/iitchead 

47 



XIX. The rerfection of Her J' ^ ^ 

Tn^OR certain he hath seen all perfectness 
^ Who among other ladies hath seen mine : 
They that go with her humbly should com- 
bine 
To thank their God for such peculiar grace. 
So perfect is the beauty of her face 
That it begets in no wise any sign 
Of envy, but draws round her a clear line 
Of love, and blessed faith, and gentleness. 
Merely the sight of her makes all things bow : 
Not she herself alone is holier 

Than all ; but hers, through her, are raised 
above. 
From all her acts such lovely graces flow 
That truly one may never think of her 
Without a passion of exceeding love. 

Dante Alighicri, trans. D. G. Rossctli. 

XX. A Nut-Brown Maid J^ J^ Ji 

T)ROWN is my love, but graceful, 
-'-^ And each renowned whiteness. 
Matched with thy lovely brown, loseth its bright- 
ness. 

Fair is my love, but scornful : 
Yet have I seen despised 

Dainty white lilies, and sad flowers well prized. 
Musica Transalpina, 1597. 
48 



XXI. She was a Phantom of DeHorht Jf> 



fc>' 



OHP: was a Phantom of delight 

"^ When first she gleamed upon my sight ; 

A lovely Apparition, sent 

To be a moment's ornament ; 

Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ; 

Like Twilight's too, her dusky hair ; 

But all things else about her drawn 

From May-time and the cheerful Dawn ; 

A dancing Shape, an Image gay, 

To haunt, to startle, and way-lay. 

I saw her upon nearer view, 

A Spirit, yet a Woman too ! 

Her household motions light and free, 

And steps of virgin-liberty ; 

A countenance in which did meet 

Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 

A Creature not too bright or good 

For human nature's daily food ; 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles. 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 

And now I see with eye serene 

The very pulse of the machine ; 

A Being breathing thoughtful breath, 

A Traveller between life and death ; 

The reason firm, the temperate will. 

Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ; 

TJic (raiiJai of Love. aq\ q 



A perfect Woman, nobly planned, 
To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
And yet a spirit still, and bright 
With something of angelic light. 

WordswoftJi. 



XXII. My Sweet Sweeting J^ J^ J^ 

\ H, my sweet sweeting ! 
^^ My little pretty sweeting. 
My sweeting will I love wherever I go, 
She is so proper and so pure, 
Full steadfast, stable, and demure. 
There is none such, you may be sure, 
As my sweet sweeting. 

In all this world, as thinketh me, 
Is none so pleasant to my eye, 
That I am glad so oft to see 
As my sweet sweeting. 

When I behold my sweeting sweet. 
Her face, her hands, her mignon feet, 
They seem to me there is none so sweet 
As my sweet sweeting. 

Sir J. Hawkins. 
50 



XXIII. She Walks in Beauty J' J> J. 

OHE walks in beauty, like the night 
^^ Of cloudless climes and starry skies ; 
And all that's best of dark and bright 

Meet in her aspect and her eyes : 
Thus mellow'd to that tender light 

Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less, 
Had half impair'd the nameless grace 

Which waves in every raven tress. 
Or softly lightens o'er her face, 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, 

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent. 
The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 

But tell of days in goodness spent, 
A mind at peace with all below, 

A heart whose love is innocent ! 

Lord Byron. 



51 



XXIV. Her Face J> J> Jt' Jt' 

AND would you see 1113' mistress' face ? 
■'' ^ It is a flowery garden place, 
Where knots of beauties have such grace 
That all is work and nowhere space. 

It is a sweet, delicious morn, 
Where day is breeding, never born ; 
It is a meadow, 3'ct unshorn, 
Which thousand flowers do adorn. 

It is the heavens' bright reflex, 
Weak eyes to dazzle and to vex : 
It is th' Idea of her sex, 
Envy of whom doth world perplex. 

It is a face of Death that smiles. 
Pleasing, though it kills the whiles : 
Where Death and Love in pretty w'iles, 
Each other mutually beguiles. 

It is fair beauty's freshest youth. 

It is the feigned Elisium's truth : 

The spring, that wintered hearts renew'th ; 

And this is that my soul pursueth. 

Philip Rossettcr. 



52 



XXV. Who is the Maid ? J^ ,^ ^ 

I. 

WHO is the maid my spirit seeks, 
Through cold reproof and slander's blight ? 
Has she Love's roses on her cheeks ? 

Is Jicrs an eye of this world's light ? 
No, wan and sunk with midnight prayer 

Are the pale looks of her I love ; 
Or if, at times, a light be there, 
Its beam is kindled from above. 

II. 
I chose not her, my soul's elect. 

From those who seek their Maker's shrine 
In gems and garlands proudly deck'd, 

As if themselves were things divine ! 
No — Heaven but faintly warms the breast 

That beats beneath a broider'd veil ; 
And she who conies in glittering vest 

To mourn her frailty, still is frail. 

III. 
Not so the faded form I prize 

And love, because its bloom is gone ; 
The glory in those sainted eyes 

Is all the grace Jicr brow puts on. 
And ne'er was Beauty's dawn so bright, 

So touching as that form's decay, 

Which, like the altar's trembling light. 

In holy lustre wastes away ! 

Thomas Moore, 

53 



XXVI. The Only She J^ J^ J^ ^ 

" O AY, Love ! if ever thou didst iind 
^^ A woman with a constant mind ? " 
" None but one ! " 
"And what should that rare mirror be? 
Some goddess or some Queen is she ? " 
She ! She ! She ! and only She ! 
She, only Queen of Love and Beauty ! 



" But could thy fiery poisoned dart, 
At no time, touch her spotless heart. 

Nor come near ? " 
" She is not subject to Love's bow. 
Her eye commands, her heart saith * No ! 
No ! no ! no ! and only No ! 
One No ! another still doth follow. 



" How might I that fair wonder know, 
That mocks desire with endless ' No ! ' ? " 

" See the Moon, 
That ever in one change doth grow ; 
Yet still the same, and She is so ! " 
So ! so ! so ! and only so ! 
From heaven, her virtues she doth borrow. 



" To her, then, yield thy shafts and bow. 
That can command affections so ! " 
54 



" Love is free, 
So are her thoughts that vanquish thee ! 
There is no Queen of Love but She ! " 
She ! She ! She ! and only She ! 
She, only Queen of Love and Beauty ! 

John Dowland. 



XXVII. Her Right Name ^ j, ^ 

A S Nancy at her toilet sat, 
-^^^ Admiring this and blaming that ; 
" Tell me," she said ; '' but tell me true ; 
The nymph who could your heart subdue, 
What sort of charms does she possess ? " 
" Absolve me, Fair One : I'll confess 
With pleasure," I replied. " Her hair, 
In ringlets rather dark than fair, 
Does down her ivory bosom roll. 
And, hiding half, adorns the whole. 
In her high forehead's fair half-round 
Love sits in open triumph crown'd : 
He in the dimple of her chin, 
In private state, by friends is seen. 
Her eyes are neither black, nor grey ; 
Nor fierce, nor feeble is their ray ; 
Their dubious lustre seems to show 
Something that speaks nor Yes, nor No. 
Her lips no living bard, I weet, 
55 



May say, how red, how round, how sweet, 
Old Homer only could indite 
Their vagrant grace and soft delight : 
They stand recorded in his book, 

When Helen smiled, and Hebe spoke " 

The gipsy, turning to her glass, 
Too plainly show'd she knew the face : 
"And which am I most like," she said, 
" Your Chloe, or your nut-brown maid ? ' 

Mattheiv Prior. 



XXVIII. Description of such a One as he 
could Love ^ J> ^ ,^ J> J' 

A FACE that should content me wondrous well 
-^"^ Should not be fair, but lovely to behold : 
With gladsome cheer, all grief for to expel : 
With sober looks so would I that it should 
Speak without words, such words as none can tell : 
The tress also should be of crisped gold. 
With wit and these might chance I might be tied, 
And knit again the knot that should not slide. 

Sir Thomas Wxatl. 



56 



XXIX. Annie Laurie J' J- ^ '^ 

MAXWELLTON braes are bonnie, 
Where early fa's the dew, 
And it's there that Annie Laurie 

Gi'ed me her promise true ; 
Gi'ed me her promise true, 

Which ne'er forgot will be, 
And for bonnie Annie Laurie, 
I'd lay me down and dee. 



Her brow is Uke the snaw- drift, 

Her neck is like the swan, 
Her face it is the fairest 

That e'er the sun shone on. 
That e'er the sun shone on. 

And dark blue is her e'e ; 
And for bonnie Annie Laurie 

I'd lay me down and dee. 

Like dew on the gowan lying, 

Is the fa' o' her fairy feet ; 
And like winds in summer sighing, 

Her voice is low and sweet. 
Her voice is low and sweet, 

And she's a' the world to me ; 
And for bonnie Annie Laurie 

I'd lay me down and dee. 

Lady John Scott. 

57 



XXX. So White, so Soft, so Sweet, is She 

OEE the chariot at hand here of Love, 
^^ Wherein my Lady rideth ! 
Each that draws is a swan or a dove, 
And well the car Love guideth. 
As she»goes, all hearts do duty 

Unto her beauty ; 
And enamoured do wish, so they might 

But enjoy such a sight, 
That they still were to run by her side. 
Through swords, through seas, whither she would 
glide. 



Do but look on her eyes, they do light 
All that Love's world compriseth ! 

Do but look on her hair, it is bright 
As Love's star when it riseth ! 

Do but mark, her forehead's smoother 

Than words that soothe her ; 

And from her arched brows such a grace 

Sheds itself through the face. 

As alone there triumphs to the life 

All the gain, all the good of the elements' strife. 



Have you seen but a bright lily grow 

Before rude hands have touched it ? 

Have you marked but the fall of the snow 
Before the soil hath smutched it ? 
58 



Have you felt the wool of the beaver, 
Or swan's down ever ? 

Or have smelt o' the bud of the brier, 

Or the nard in the fire ? 

Or have tasted the bag of the bee ? 

O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she ! 

Ben Jonson. 

XXXI. Whom I Love J' J^ ^ 

QHALL I tell you whom I love ? 
"^ Hearken then awhile to me ; 
And if such a woman move 

As I now shall versify, 
Be assured 'tis she, or none. 
That I love, and love alone. 

Nature did her so much right 
As she scorns the help of art. 

In as many virtues dight 

i\.s e'er yet embraced a heart : 

So much good, so truly tried. 

Some for less were deified. 

Wit she hath, without desire 

To make known how much she hath : 

And her anger flames no higher 
Than may fitly sweeten wrath. 

Full of pity as may be, 

Though perhaps not so to me. 
59 



Reason masters every sense : 
And her virtues grace her birth : 

Lovely as all excellence ; 

Modest in her most of mirth : 

Likelihood enough to prove 

Only worth could kindle love. 

Such she is : and if you know 

Such a one as I have sung, 
Be she brown, or fair, or — so 

That she be but somewhile young : 
Be assured 'tis she, or none, 
That I love, and love alone. 

Will ia in Broivnc. 

XXXII. A Steadfast Mind J> J. . 

T T E that loves a rosy cheek, 

-^ -*■ Or a coral lip admires. 
Or from star-like eyes doth seek 

Fuel to maintain his fires ; 
As old Time makes these decay, 
So his flames must waste away. 

But a smooth and steadfast mind. 

Gentle thoughts and calm desires, 
Hearts with equal love combined, 

Kindle never-dying fires ; 
Where these are not, I despise 
Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes. 

Thomas Carew. 
6q 



XXXIII. Praise of My Lady J' ^ J^ 

MY lady seems of ivory 
Forehead, straight nose, and cheeks 
that be 
Hollow'd a Httle mournfulh\ 

Beaia mca Domina ! 

Her forehead, overshadow'd much 
By bows of hair, has a wave such 
As God was good to make for me. 
Beaia mea Domina ! 

Not greatly long my lady's hair, 
Nor yet with yellow colour fair. 
But thick and crisped wonderfully : 
Bcata mea Domina ! 

Heavy to make the pale face sad. 
And dark, but dead as though it had 
Been forged by God most wonderfully 
— Beaia mea Domina ! — 

Of some strange metal, thread by thread, 
To stand out by my lady's head, 
Not moving much to tangle me. 

Beaia mea Domina/ 

Beneath her brows the lids fall slow. 
The lashes a clear shadow throw 
Where I would wish my lips to be. 
Beaia mea Domina/ 
6i 



Her great eyes standing far apart, 
Draw up some memory from her heart, 
And gaze out very mournfully : 

Beata mca Domiiia I 

So beautiful and kind they are. 
But most times looking out afar, 
Waiting for something, not for me. 
Bcaia mea Domina ! 

I wonder if the lashes long 

Are those that do her bright eyes wrong, 

For always half tears seem to be 

— Bcaia mea Domina ! — 

Lurking below the underlid. 
Darkening the place where they lie hid — 
If they should rise and flow for me ! 
Beata mea Domina ! 

Her full lips being made to kiss, 
Curl'd up and pensive each one is ; 
This makes me faint to stand and see. 
Beata mea Domina ! 

Her lips are not contented now, 
Because the hours pass so slow 
Towards a sweet time : (pray for me), 
— Beata mea Domina I — 
62 



So passionate and swift to iiiiove, 
To pluck at any flying love, 
That I grow faint to stand and see, 
Beata mea Domina ! 

Yea ! there beneath them is her chin, 
So fine and round, it were a sin 
To feel no weaker when I see 

— Beaia mea Domina ! — 

God's dealings ; for with so much care 
And troublous, faint lines wrought in there, 
He finishes her face for me. 

Beata mea Domina / 

Of her long neck what shall I say ? 
What things about her body's sway, 
Like a knight's pennon or slim tree 

— Beaia mea Domina ! — 

Set gently waving in the wind ; 
Or her long hands that I may find 
On some day sweet to move o'er me ? 
Beata mea Domina / 

God pity me though, if I miss'd 
The telling, how along her wrist 
The veins creep, dying languidly 

— Beata mea Domina ! — 
63 



Inside her tender palm and thin. 
Now give me pardon, dear, wherein 
My voice is weak and vexes thee. 

Beat a mea Domina ! 

All men that see her any time, 

I charge you straightly in this rhyme, 

What, and wherever you may be, 

— Beata mea Domina! — 

To kneel before her ; as for me, 
I choke and grow quite faint to see 
My lady moving graciously. 

Bcata mea Domina ! 

William Morris. 



64 



IV. Shady Walks and Yew Hedges 

Melancholy and Wistful Love 



6s 



IV 

TN her salutation alone was there any beatitude 
■*- for me . . . When, for the first time, this beati- 
tude was denied me, I became possessed with such 
grief that, parting myself from others, I went into 
a lonely place to bathe the ground with most bitter 
tears . . . and having said also, " O Love, aid thou 
thy servant," I went suddenly asleep like a beaten 
sobbing child. 

Dante AUghieri, trans. D. G. Rossetii, 
" The New Life." 



66 



/^^-^K'^ 




XXXIV. The Lover beseecheth his Mistress 
not to forget his Steadfast Faith and 
True Intent ^ J* J* J' J- 

FORGET not yet the tried intent, 
Of such a truth as I have meant ; 
My great travail so gladly spent, 
Forget not yet ! 

Forget not yet when first began 
The weary life, you know since when 
The suit, the service, none tell can; 
Forget not yet ! 

Forget not yet the great assays. 
The cruel wrong, the scornful ways. 
The painful patience in delays, 
Forget not yet ! 

Forget not ! oh ! forget not this, 
How long ago hath been, and is 
The mind that never meant amiss. 
Forget not yet ! 
6; 



Forget not then thine own approved, 
The which so long hath thee so loved, 
Whose steadfast faith yet never moved, 
Forget not yet ! 

Sir Thomas Wyatt. 



XXXV. Inclusions Jt' ^ ^ ^ J' 

/^H, wilt thou have my hand, Dear, to lie along 

^-^ in thine? 

As a little stone in a running stream, it seems to 

lie and pine. 
Now drop the poor pale hand, Dear, unfit to plight 

with thine. 

Oh, wilt thou have my cheek, Dear, drawn closer 

to thine own ? 
My cheek is white, my cheek is worn, by many 

a tear run down. 
Now leave a little space, Dear, lest it should wet 

thine own. 

Oh, must thou have my soul. Dear, commingled 

with thy soul ? — 
Red grows the cheek, and warm the hand ; the 

part is in the whole : 
Nor hands nor cheeks keep separate, when soul 
is joined to soul. 

£. Barrett Browning. 
68 



XXXVI. Tenebrae «^ ^ e^' «^ ^^ 

T^OLLOW thy fair sun, .unhappy shadow, 

-^ Though thou be black as night, 

And she made all of light, 

Yet follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow ! 

Follow her whose light thy light depriveth ; 

Though here thou livest disgraced, 

And she in heaven is placed, 

Yet follow her whose light the world reviveth. 

Follow those pure beams, whose beauty burneth. 
That so have scorched thee, 
As thou still black must be, 

Till her kind beams thy black to brightness 
turneth. 

Follow her, while yet her glory shineth : 

There comes a luckless night, 

That will dim all her light ; 

And this, the black unhappy shade divineth. 

Follow still, since so thy fates ordained ; 
The sun must have his shade. 
Till both at once do fade ; 

The sun still proved, the shadow still disdained. 

Thomas Campion. 



69 



XXXVII. From the Arabic: an Imitation 

1\ /TY faint spirit was sitting in the light 
^^■*' Of thy looks, my love ; 
It panted for thee like the hind at noon 
For the brooks, my love. 
The barb whose hoofs outspeed the tempest's flight 
Bore thee far from me ; 
My heart, for my weak feet were weary soon, 
Did companion thee. 

Ah ! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed. 
Or the death they bear. 
The heart which tender thought clothes like a 
dove 
With the wings of care ; 
In the battle, in the darkness, in the need. 
Shall mine cling to thee. 
Nor claim one smile for all the comfort, love, 
It may bring to thee. 

P. B. Shelley. 



XXXVIII. To Electra ^ ^ ^ ^ 

T DARE not ask a kisse, 
-*- I dare not beg a smile, 
Lest having that, or this, 

I might grow proud the while. 
70 



No, no, the utmost share 
Of my desire shall be, 

Only to kiss that air 
That lately kissed thee. 



R. Herrick. 



XXXIX. Auld Robin Gray J' J> ^ 

T 1 T^HEN the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye 

* * at hame, 
And a' the warld to rest are gane, 
The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e. 
While my gudeman lies sound by me. 

Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for 

his bride ; 
And saving a croun he had naething else beside : 
To make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to 

sea; 
And the croun and the pund were baith for me. 

He hadna been awa' a week but only twa, 
When my father brak his arm, and the cow was 

stown awa' ; 
My mother she fell sick, and my Jamie at the sea — 
And auld Robin Gray came a-courtin' me. 
71 



My father could na work, and my mother couldna 

spin : 
I toil'd day and night, but their bread I couldna 

win ; 
Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and \vi' tears in 

his e'e 
Said, ''Jeanie, for their sakes, O, marry me!" 

My heart it said nay ; I look'd for Jamie back ; 
But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a 

wrack ; 
His ship it was a wrack — why dinna Jamie dee ? 
Or why do I live to cry, " Wae's me ! " ? 

My father urgit sair : my mother didna speak ; 
But she look'd in my face till my heart was like 

to break ; 
They gi'ed him my hand, but my heart was at 

the sea ; 
Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me. 

I hadna been a wife a week but only four, 
When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at the door, 
I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think 

it he— 
Till he said, " I'm come hame to marry thee." 

sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say ; 
We took but ae kiss, and I bade him gang away: 

1 wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee ; 
And why was I born to say, " Wae's me ! " ? 

72 



I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin ; 
I daiirna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin ; 
But I'll do my best a gude wife aye to be, 
For auld Robin Gray he is kind unto me. 

Lady Anne Barnard. 



XL. Love Untold Jk ^ ^ ^ ^ 

THEY who may tell love's wistful tale 
Of half its cares are lightened ; 
Their bark is tacking to the gale, 
The severed cloud is brightened. 

Love like the silent stream is found. 

Beneath the willows lurking, 
The deeper that it hath no sound 

To tell its ceaseless working. 

Submit, my heart ; thy lot is cast, 

I feel its inward token ; 
I feel this misery will not last. 

Yet last till thou art broken. 

Joanna Bail lie. 



The Garden of Love. y^ 



XLI. At Last J- J' J- J> J> Ji> 

OTHE years I lost before I knew you, 
Love! 
O, the hills I climbed and came not to you, 

Love ! 
Ah ! v^^ho shall render unto us to make 

Us glad, 
The things which for and of each other's sake 
We might have had ? 



If you and I had sat and played together, 

Love, 
Two speechless babes in the summer weather. 

Love, 
By one sweet brook which, though it dried up long 

Ago, 
Still makes for me to-day a sweeter song 

Than all I know — 



If hand-in-hand through the mysterious gateway, 

Love, 
Of womanhood, we had first looked and straightway, 

Love, 
Had whispered to each other softly, ere 

It yet 
Was dawn, what now in noonday heat and fear 

We both forget — 
74 



If all of this had given its completeness, 

Love, 
To every hour, would it be added sweetness, 

Love ? 
Could I know sooner whether it were well 

Or ill 
With thee ? One wish could I more sweetly tell. 

More swift fulfil ? 

Ah ! vainly thus I sit and dream and ponder, 

Love, 
Losing the precious present while I wonder, 

Love, 
About the days in which you grew and came 

To be 
So beautiful, and did not know the name 

Or sight of me. 

But all lost things are in the angels' keeping. 

Love ; 
No past is dead for us, but only sleeping, 

Love ; 
The years of Heaven will all earth's little pain 

Make good, 
Together there we can begin again, 
In babyhood. 

Helen Hunt Jackson. 



75 



XLII. Sorrow J> J' Ji J> J> J- 



nPHE dew no more will weep, 
■^ The primrose's pale cheek to deck : 
The dew no more will sleep, 
Nuzzled in the lily's neck: 
Much rather would it tremble here, 
And leave them both to be thy tear. 



Not the soft gold which 

Steals from the amber-weeping tree, 
Makes Sorrow half so rich. 

As the drops distilled from thee : 
Sorrow's best jewels be in these 
Caskets, of which Heaven keeps the keys. 

When Sorrow would be seen 

In her bright majesty. 
For she is a Queen ! 

Then she is dressed by none but thee : 
Then, and only then, she wears 
Her richest pearls ;— I mean thy tears. 

Not in the evening's eyes 

When they red with weeping are 
From the sun that dies, 

Sits Sorrow with a face so fair : 
Nowhere but here doth meet. 
Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweet. 

Richard Crashaiv. 
76 



XLIII. Come, Rest in this Bosom ^ J> 

COME, rest in this bosom, my own stricken 
deer, 
Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is 

still here ; 
Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast, 
And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last. 

Oh ! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same 
Through joy and through torment, through glory 

and shame ? 
I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart, 
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art. 

Thou hast call'd me thy Angel in moments of 

bliss. 
And thy Angel I'll be, 'mid the horrors of this — 

Through the furnace unshrinking, thy steps to 

pursue. 

And shield thee, and save thee — or perish there 

too ! Thomas Moore. 



XLIV. Foreknowledge J^ J^ J^ Ji> 

T ITTLE think'st thou, poor flower 

-■ — ' Whom I have watched six or seven days, 

And seen thy birth, and seen what every hour 

Gave to thy growth, thee to this height to raise, 
And now dost laugh and triumph on this bough, 
77 



Little think'st thou 
That it will freeze anon, and that I shall 
To-morrow find thee fall'n, or not at all. 

Little think'st thou, poor heart, 

That labourest yet to nestle thee, 
And think'st by hovering here to get a part 

In a forbidden or forbidding tree, 
And hop'st her stiffness by long siege to bow : 

Little think'st thou 
That thou, to-morrow, ere the sun doth wake, 
Must with this sun and me a journey take. 

Jolin Donne. 

XLV. Too Late ^ ^ .^ jit ^ 

T7 ACH on his own strict line we move, 
-■--^ And some find death ere they find love. 
So far apart their lives are thrown 
From the twin soul that halves their own. 

And sometimes, by still harder fate, 

The lovers meet, but meet too late. 

— Thy heart is mine ! — True, true ! ah, true ! 

Then, love, thy hand ! — Ah, no! adieu! 

Matthew Arnold. 



78 



XLVI. A Dying Fall J' J. J. j. 

"POLLOW your saint, follow with accents sweet! 
^ Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet ! 
There, wrapped in cloud of sorrow, pity move, 
And tell the ravishcr of my soul I perish for her 

love : 
But if she scorns my never-ceasing pain, 
Then burst with sighing in her siglit and ne'er 
return again ! 

All that I sung still to her praise did tend ; 
Still she was first ; still she my songs did end : 
Yet she my love and music both doth fly, 
The music that her echo is and beauty's sympathy. 
Then let my notes pursue her scornful flight ! 
It shall suffice that they were breathed and died 
for her delight. 

Thomas Campion. 

XLVII. The Banks o' Doon ^ ^ ^ 

AZE banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 
^ How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ; 
How can ye chant ye little birds. 

And I sae weary fu' o' care ! 
Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, 

That wantons thro' the flowering thorn ; 
Thou minds me o' departed joys, 
Departed — never to return ! 
79 



Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, 

To see the rose and woodbine twine ; 
And ilka bird sang o' its luve, 

And fondly sae did I o' mine. 
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ; 
And my fause luver stole my rose, 

But ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. 

Robert Burns. 

XLVIII. True and False Love ^ ^ 

T OVE seeketh not itself to please, 
-*-^ Nor for itself hath any care 
But for another gives its ease. 
And builds a heaven in hell's despair. 

Love seeketh only self to please, 
To bind another to its delight, 

Joys in another's loss of ease, 

And builds a hell in heaven's despite. 

William Blake. 



ao 



V. A Guest at the Gate 

Love Himself in various Disguises. 



8i 



V 

'^pHE Boy, 

-*- Than whom no mortal so magnificent ! 
This wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy ! 
This senior- junior, giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid ; 
Regent of love-rhymes, lord of folded arms, 
The anointed sovereign of sighs and groans, 
Liege of all loiterers and malcontents. 

William ShakcsPeare, " Love's Labour's LosL" 



82 






]>^'%: 



XLIX. The Cheat of Cupid, or The Un- 
gentle Guest ^ ^ J^ J^ j^ J, 

/^NE silent night of late, 
^-^ When every creature rested, 
Came one unto my gate, 
And knocking, me molested. 

Who's that, said I, beats there, 
And troubles thus the sleepy? 

Cast off, said he, all fear. 

And let not locks thus keep ye. 

For I a boy am, who 

By moonless nights have swerved ; 
And all with show'rs wet through, 

And e'en with cold half starved. 

I, pitiful, arose, 

And soon a taper lighted ; 
And did myself disclose 

Unto the lad benighted. 
83 



I saw he had a bow, 

And wings too, which did shiver ; 
And looking down below, 

I spy'd he had a quiver. 

I to my chimney's shine 

Brought him, as Love professes, 

And chafd his hands with mine. 
And dried his drooping tresses. 

But when he felt him warm'd, 

Let's try this bow of ours, 
And string, if they be harm'd, 

Said he, with these late show'rs. 

r^orthwith his bow he bent. 
And wedded string and arrow, 

And struck me, that it went 

Quite through my heart and marrow. 

Then laughing loud, he fiew 

Away, and thus said Hying, 
Adieu, mine host, adieu, 

I'll leave thy heart a-dying. 

Robert Hcrrick 

L. The Wayfarer ^ J' J' J> 



A 



DAY agone, as I rode sullenly 
Upon a certain path that liked me not, 
I met Love midwav while the air was hot, 

84 



Clothed lightly as a wayfarer might be. 
A-iid for the cheer he showed, he seemed to mc 
As one who hath lost lordship he had got ; 
iVdvancing tow'rds me full of sorrowful thought, 
Bowing his forehead so that none should see. 
Theri as I went, he called me by my name, 
Saying : ** I journey since the morn was dim 
Thence where I made thy heart to be : which 
now 
I needs must bear unto another dame." 

Wlierewith so much passed into mc of him 
That he was gone, and I discerned not how. 
Dante Alighicri, trans. I). G. Rossclti. 

LI. What the Mighty Love has done ^ 

T T EAR, ye ladies that despise, 

-'- -■- What the mighty Love has done : 

Fear examples, and be wise : 

Fair Calisto was a nun ; 
Leda, sailing on the stream 

To deceive the hopes of man, 
Love accounting but a dream, 

Doted on a silver swan ; 
Danae, in a brazen tower. 
Where no love was, loved a shower. 

Hear, ye ladies that are coy. 

What the mighty Love can do ; 
Fear the fierceness of the boy : 
85 



The chaste moon he makes to woo ; 
Vesta, kindling holy fires, 

Circled round about with spies, 
Never dreaming loose desires, 
Doting at the altar dies ; 

I lion, in a short hour, higher 

He can build, and once more fire. 

Joint Fletcher. 

LI I. Upon Cupid J^ ^ J^ J- 

T OVE, like a beggar, came to me 
^ — ' With hose and doublet torn, 
His shirt bedangling from his knee. 
With hat and shoes out-worn. 

He ask'd an alms ; I gave him bread. 
And meat too, for his need ; 

Of which, when he had fully fed, 
He wis-.hed me all good speed. 

f\way he went ; but as he turn'd, 

In faith I know not how, 
He toucht me so, as that I burn, 

And am tormented now. 

Love's silent flames, and fires obscure. 

Then crept into my heart ; 
And though I saw no bow, I'm sure 
His finger was the dart. 

Robert Herri ck. 
86 



LI 1 1. Hash, Hush! J^ ,j^ ^ ^ ^ 

" TTUSH, hush !"— how well 
-^ ^ That sweet word sounds, 
When Love, the little sentinel, 

Walks his night-rounds ; 
Then, if a foot but dare 

One rose-leaf crush, 
Myriads of voices in the air 

Whisper, "Hush, hush!" 

" Hark, hark, 'tis he ! " 

The night-elves cry. 
And hush their fairy harmony. 

While he steals by ; 
But if his silv'ry feet 

One dew-drop brush, 
Voices are heard in chorus sweet, 

Whisp'ring, "Hush, hush!" 

Thomas Moore. 



LIV. Love will find out the Way ^ j, 

/^VER the mountains 
^-^ And over the waves, 
Under the fountains 

And under the graves ; 
Under floods that are deepest, 
87 



Which Neptune obey ; 
Over rocks that are steepest, 
Love will find out the way. 

Where there is no place 

For the glow-worm to lie ; 
Where there is no space 

For receipt of a fly ; 
Where the midge dares not venture, 

Lest herself fast she lay ; 
If Love come, he will enter 

And soon find out his way 

You may esteem him 

A child for his might ; 
Or you may deem him 

A coward for his flight ; 
But if she whom Love doth honour 

Be concealed from the day, 
Set a thousand guards upon her, 

Love will find out the way. 

Some think to lose him 

By having him confin'd. 
And some do suppose him. 

Poor thing, to be blind ; 
But if ne'er so close you wall him, 

Do the best that you may; 
Blind Love, if so ye call him, 

Will find out his way. 
88 



You may train the eagle 

To stoop to your fist ; 
Or you may inveigle 

The Phoenix of the East ; 
The lioness, you may move her 

To give o'er her prey ; 
But you'll ne'er stop a lover — 

He will find out his way. 

Early Seventeenth Century Poem. 



LV. The Mariner ^ J- J' J- J> 

UPON a summer's day Love went to swim, 
And cast himself into a sea of tears. 
The clouds call'd in their light, and heav'n wax'd 
dim, 
vVnd sighs did raise a tempest, causing fears. 
The naked boy could not so wield his arms 

But that the waves were masters of his might, 
And threat'n'd him to work far greater harms 
If he devised not to 'scape by flight. 

Then for a boat his quiver stood in stead 
His bow unbent did serve him for a mast, 

Whereby to sail, his cloth of vail he spread, 
His shafts for oars on either board he cast. 

From shipwreck safe this wag got thus to shore, 
And sware to bathe in lovers' tears no more. 

William Byrd. 

89 



lA'l. Lovr, like ii (iy()sy ^t i* ^^ 

I ()VI<:. liUc a .livpsy, lately canio, 
"* And (lid iiu" imicli iiniH")rtiinc 
'l\) see my hand, that by the same 
\\c niii^hl lorcUll my l\u(imc. 

lie saw my palm; and tlieii, said he, 
I tell lliee, by this scDie here, 

That thou, within lew months, shalt be 
The youthtul Piinee D'Amoni here. 

I smil'd, and bade him (>nee more prove. 
Anil by some eross-line show it, 

That I could ne'er be Prince ol" Love, 
ThouLjh here tlie piiiiceb' poet. 

Ixoht/I Hen ilk. 



1AM I. Love's I'rcMchcr)' ^4 ^< ji j^ 

/^I'lMI) abrixul was laled in the mold. 

His wint^s well' wet with rani^ini; in the 
lain : 
Harbour he soui^ht, to me he took his tlij^ht, 
Vo dry his plumes : 1 heatd the boy comjtlain ; 
I oped the ilooi'. and i^ranted his desiri\ 
I 1 Dsi" mysilt', and made the wat^; a i'u\'. 

Lookiu!^ more narrow by the tue"s ilame, 

I spieil his ipiiver hauLiiu!^ bv his back ; 
Houbtini; thi> hoy mi^ht m\ mistortune tiame, 
go 



I would li:ivc ^onc for fear of further wrack ; 
Hul wlial I (Irad, did me, poor wretch, betide, 
l\)v forth he (hew an arrow fioui his side. 

lie pierced llie iiuick, and I bc-o;aii to start, 

A pleasinj4 wound, but thai it was too hi^h ; 

His shaft j^rocured a sharp, yet suj^ared smart : 

Away he Hew, for why? his win^s were dry; 

But left the arrow sticking in my l)reast, 

That sore I grieved I welcomed such a guest. 

Rohcrl (^.iccnc. 

LVIIl. Love the ('oiupicror J' J' J' 

HV\\\\, you ladies lapl in silk, 
Deck'd with all that's bought for money, 
Red as roses, while as milk. 

Soft as wool and sweet as honey ! 
Though you fence yotustlvcs about 
With palisades right stout. 
In citadel most strong— 
O, yet, ere long 
Sir Love shall surely find you out ! 

Say, what help shall then avail, 
When a rosy splendour scorches 

All your vestments, from the trail 
Ot his red triumphal torches? 

When your guarded rampails fall, 

Your turrets }iroud and tall 

Crumble to little ash 
91 



Before the crash 

Of his victorious bugle call ? 

Then defy you Love no more, 

Sound a parley, speak him tender, 

Call a truce with him, before 
Ye must hopelessly surrender ! 

Hearken, ladies, and be wise, 

For joy ye know not, Hes, 

Hoarding its golden gleam 

For the hour supreme 

When Love the Conqueror claims his prize ! 

May Byron. 

LIX. The Shower of Blossoms ^ j 

T OVE in a show'r of blossoms came 

•*-— ' Down, and half drown'd me with the same ; 

The blooms that fell were white and red ; 

But with such sweets commingled, 

As whether this I cannot tell 

My sight was pleas'd more, or my smell ; 

But true it was, as I roll'd there. 

Without a thought of hurt or fear. 

Love turn'd himself into a bee. 

And with his javelin wounded me : 

From which mishap this use I make. 

Where most sweets are, there lies a snake: 

Kisses and favours are sweet things ; 

But those have thorns, and these have stings. 

Robert Herrick. 
92 



VI. The Children's Border 

Love of Mother and Child 



93 



VI 

'T^HE joys of parents are secret, and so are tlieir 
-*- griefs and fears : they cannot utter the one, 
nor they will not utter the other. ... It is a strange 
thing to note the excess of this passion (of love) and 
how it braves the nature and value of things ... as 
if man, made for the contemplation of heaven and 
of all noble objects, should do nothing but kneel 
before a little idol. 

Francis Bacon, " Essays." 



94 



'M 








LX. At Bay ^ ^ 



^ 



1\ /j" Y child is mine. 

^^ ^ Blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh is he, 

Rocked on my breast and nurtured at my knee. 

Fed with sweet thoughts ere ever he drew breath, 

Wrested in battle through the gates of death. 

With passionate patience is my treasure 

hoarded, 
And all my pain with priceless joy rewarded. 

My child is mine. 

Nay, but a thousand thousand powers of ill 
Dispute him with me : lurking wolf-like still 
In every covert of the ambushed years. 
Disease and danger dog him : foes and fears 
Bestride his path, with menace fierce and 

stormy. 
Help me, O God ! these are too mighty for me ! 
95 



My child is mine. 

But pomp and glitter of the garish world 
May wean him hence ; while, tenderly unfurled 
Like a spring leaf, his delicate, spotless days 
Open in blinding sunlight. And the blaze 

Of blue and blossom, scents and songs at riot. 
May woo him from my wardenship of quiet. 

My child is mine. 
Yet all his grey forefathers of the past 
Challenge the dear possession : they o'ercast 
His soul's clear purity with dregs and lees 
Of vile unknown ancestral impulses : 

And viewless hands, from shadowy regions 

groping, 
With dim negation frustrate all my hoping. 

My child is mine. 

By what black fate, what ultimate doom accurs'd, 

Shall be that radiant certainty revers'd ? 

Though hell should thrust its fiery gulfs between, 

Though all the heaven of heavens should 

intervene, 

Bound with a bond not God Himself will sever. 

The babe I bore is mine for ever and ever — 

My child is mine. 

May Byron. 



96 



LXI. A Cradle Song 



O LEEP, sleep, beauty bright, 

*^ Dreaming in the joys of night ! 

Sleep, sleep ; in thy sleep 

Little sorrows sit and weep. 

Sweet babe, in thy face 
Soft desires I can trace. 
Secret joys and secret smiles. 
Little pretty infant wiles. 

As thy softest limbs I feel, 
Smiles as of the morning steal 
O'er thy cheek, and o'er thy breast, 
When thy little heart doth rest. 

Oh, the cunning wiles that creep 
In thy little heart asleep ! 
When thy little heart doth wake. 
Then the dreadful light doth break. 

William Blake. 



The Garden of Love. .- 



LXII. The Goal «^ ^ Jfe «^ e^ 

OHE knocked at the Paradise-gate, 
^ She tided at the golden pin, 
'' Who is this that cometh so late, 

And thinks to be let in?" 
" Ah ! keep me not here without, 

Open quickly ! " she cried, 
''For there are those that need me, need me, 

Waiting just inside." 

Weary she was and worn. 

Her knees and her shoulders bent 
With the leaden burden of years forlorn, 

All in vanity spent. 
But she leapt like a yearling doe 

Across the threshold of light — 
She flew to the arms that drew her, drew her. 

As a homing dove takes flight. 

One was clasping her wrist, 

And one was grasping her gown : 
To one that cried to be kissed 

Tenderly stooped she down. 
As a bird outspreadeth its wings. 

She gathered them closely in — 
" Now is the time, O children, children, 

Wlien life shall at last begin !" 

Maurice Clare. 



98 



LXIII. The Mother's Lullaby ^ ^ 

1\ /TY little sweete darling, my comfort and joy, 
^^ Singe lully by, lully, 
In beauty excelling the princes of Troye, 
Singe lully by, lully. 

Now sucke, child, and sleepe, child, thy mother's 

sweete boy. 
The gods blesse and keepe thee from cruel annoy, 
Thy father, sweete infant, from mother is gone, 
And she in the woodes heere, with thee left alone. 

To thee, little infant, why do I make mone, 

Singe lully by, lully, 
Sith thou canst not help mee to sighe nor to grone, 

Singe lully by, lully, 
Sweete baby, lully by, sweet baby, lully, lully. 

Author Unknown. 



LXIV. Mothering Sunday ^ e^ ^ 

Mid-Lent Sicttday 

" He who goes a-mothering finds violets in the lane." 

Old Proveib. 

A MIST of leaves, a maze of light, about the 

^^^ gates of Spring : 

The sweet winds summon exiles home from 

wintry wandering ; 

99 



And down the olden \v:iy they haste, wliereof 

their feet are tain, 
And he who i^oes a-niotheriiii^ linds violets in the 

lane. 

Now nnderneath the hlne-j^ray sky the snnny paths 

•ffovv hot. 
The blue-i^ray buds unfurl to bloom in each familiar 

spot — 
The white Inuls and the blue-<^ray buds, whose 

soft lips gently part, 
In rapture such as one may know who hitles on 

Mother's heart. 

'i'lie blackbird in the ^reeniuLi; elm brinu^s a new 

song to-day, 
The lark ujilifis his ecstasy above tlie meailows gay ; 
The door stands wide, the wall llower scent lloats 

in across the sill. 
And there upon the lintel-stoiie is INIother waiting 

still ! 



Throw open wide Thy doors, O Lotd, for souls to 
enter in ! 

'I'he days of exile overpas*, the home-davs shall 
begin ; 

Dear hands and li[is diaw nigh cnice more to 
welci^me and {o bless, 

And all the lovely olden hours renew their loveli- 
ness : 

lOO 



Blue violets round (he Tree of Life, blue violets at 
the brim 

Of all the livino water-sprin^^s where never light 

grows dim — 
Where tears are dried, and dead hopes raised, and 

lost years found again, 
And hearts may go a-mothering for evermore, 

Amen ! 

M. C. Gillington. 



LXV. A Slumber Song ^ ^ ^ ^ 

O WKKT dreams, form a shade 
*^ O'er my lovely infant's head ! 
Sweet dreams of pleasant streams 
By happy silent moony beams. 

Sweet sleep, with soft down 
Weave thy brows an infant crown ! 
Sweet sleep, angel mild. 
Hover o'er my happy child ! 

Sweet smiles, in the night, 
Hover over my deligiit ! 
Sweet smiles, mother's smiles. 
All the live-long night beguile. 



William Blake. 

101 



LXVI. The Wood Song ^ ,^ ^ «^ 

A LWAYS there is a tiny song 
-^^ That trickles down the trees 
Small dropping notes — not loud nor long, 

Like other melodies, 
But soft reluctant sounds, half-heard, 
That utterance of some unknown bird. 



And I have hunted in and out, 
And searched, all times and tides, 

And lurked the woodland ways about — 
That simple singer hides. 

Nor stirs a feather : nought shall scare 

Him from his secret sojourn there. 

And there is one in every wood, 
Who sings there day by day : 

It almost might be understood, 
The thing he strives to say. 

As though some child were at one's gate. 

Sweet, plaintive, half-articulate. 

Whereby I know, in leafy tents 

Awhile invisible, 
A flight of Holy Innocents 

On this green earth do dwell. 
That bird-babe with those notes divine, 
He may be yours — he may be mine. 

102 



Hark! where the topmost branches rear, 

It drips like April rain, 
The little voice that nevermore 

You thought to hear again — 
Until you catch the trick of tone, 
And know the singer for your own. 

Yet speak not, lest you break the charm- 
Stand silent in the dew, 

And reach not out your empty arm 
To clasp him unto you. 

Patience ! . . . Perhaps, if you keep still, 

He will come down. I think he will. 

May Byron. 

LXVII. Parental Recollections Jt ^ 

A CHILD'S a plaything for an hour ; 
^ Its pretty tricks we try 
For that or for a longer space ; 
Then tire, and lay it by. 

But I knew one that to itself 

All seasons could control ; 
That would have mocked the sense of pain 

Out of a grieved soul. 

Thou straggler into loving arms. 

Young climber-up of knees. 
When I forget thy thousand ways. 
Then life and all shall cease. 

Mary Lamb. 
103 



LXVIII. Two Against Fate J^ J> ^ 

("When a child is Iwrii anionj^ the Thracians, all its kindred 
sit about it in a circle, and weep I'or the woes it will have to 
underj^o, now that it has come into the world, making mention 
of every ill that falls to the lot of man." — Herodotus, 
"Terpsichore," 4.) 



THEY all came r 
head, 



oiind thy cradle, little brown 



Bringing their shrill forebodings of disaster ; 
Bent crone and barren beldame, how they sped, 
Each with the dreariest tale her tongue could 
master ! 

But thou and I 
Cared not : the}^ would be silent by and by. 

The heroes of thy kindred, little brown head, 
Bearing a burden deep of lamentation, 

Wept as they spoke : the maidens newly-wed, 
Trembling, declared thy dark predestination : 

But I and thou 
Lay hushed, close, close together, even as now 

Ah me ! but when they had left us, little brown 
head. 
The Ills that they had summoned lingered after ; 
On every side I heard the stealthy tread, 
The wailing voices and the mocking laughter, — 

I saw them creep 
And lay malignant looks upon thy sleep. 
104 



For Care stooped low above thee, little brown 

head, 

And Pain caressed thee on the hands and feet, 

And Fear's black shadow filled the dusk with dread, 

And Famine breathed on thee — my sweet, my 

sweet ! 

And Grief, who knelt 
Against thy side — her very tears I felt. 

And false Love smiling faintly, little brown head. 
And broken Hope that turns the world to gall. 

And Sickness, and Despair — I saw them spread 
Their malison o'er thee that art my all ; 

Impotent, still, 
I lay and listened : they must have their will. 

Last of all, Death — not fearful, little brown head, 
But like a hooded mother, soft and dim. 

Drew near with rustling garments, and did shed 
Clear drops of blessing o'er thine every limb — 

Death, at whose sight 
Those other phantoms dwindled and took flight. 

Alas, for thee and me, my little brown head ! 

Have I then lured thee into snares of sorrow ? 
Was it for this, for this, the long days led 
My weary steps to that divinest morrow, 

That golden hour, 
When the sealed bud broke to the perfect 
flower ? 

105 



How may I foil those Evils, little brown head, 
How may I blunt the weapons they are shaping 

To wound thee sore ? Mine eyes uncomforted 
Can see no crevice for our joy's escaping. 

What ! shall we two 
Ouail and surrender, then, as others do ? 

No ! let us fight and face them, little brown head. 
Through desperate battle waxing ever bolder. 

Selling our life-blood dear. Yea, I being dead. 
Should I forego the conflict ? At thy shoulder, 

Yet will I wield 
A broken sword in the unequal field. 

Thus upon Fate we trample, little brown head ; 

Her promises and threats, alike unstable, 
Shall rift and shift before us : in her stead 

Stands Love unconquered and unconquerable, 
Clad all in fire, 

Opening the doorways of the heart's desire. 

So to the end. . . . What foe shall make or mar 
That plenitude of peace, when, warfare ended, 
Wild thyme and clover and the evening star 
Keep watch above us, in one dreaming blended ? 
When I and thou 
Lie hushed, close, close together, even as now. 

May Byron. 



1 06 



LXIX. Cawn Bawn Dheelish J> J* J' 

The Dear Fair Head 

T IKE a nestling yet callow in its soft downy 
-L^ yellow, 
Like the bud on the sallow by the shallow 
moor-stream 
With its gold locks entwining, is "my child's head 
reclining, 
And I see its gold shining still gleam through 
my dream. 

And at night-time awaking, your pillow forsaking, 

Your soft refuge making, dear head, on my 

breast ; 

When the first ray gives warning of dew-dropping 

morning. 

Your fair head, mavourneen, still nestles to rest. 

The wind whistles colder — come, hide on my 
shoulder, 
And never seem older, my sweetheart, for me ! 
The blows Fate may deal us, but the closer shall 
seal us, 
I and you, Cawn Bawn Dheelish, acushla ma- 
chree ! 

Maurice Clare. 



107 






7 



r 



VII. 
May-time in the Garden 

The Sweetness of Love 



109 



VII 

T^OR like as herbs and trees bring forth fruit 
^ and flourish in May, in likewise every lusty 
heart, that is in any manner a lover, springeth and 
flourisheth in lusty deeds. . . . And, in likewise, 
lovers call again to their mind old gentleness and 
old service, and many kind deeds that were forgotten 
by negligence. 

Sir Thomas Malory, '^ Mortc d Arthur." 



r >r -^•"^' 



.^:f 






^•T'^e --£>' 







^^m'i^.:0 



'^,1 



y/ 



I SiLiimm'?.<sTr\ 




CJ^ 



LXX. In May 



J- 



J- 



'T^HE brook down the bank drips into a mossy 
-*- moat — 

"Deep, deep, deep!" sings the nightingale, 
"Cool and deep !" 
And the rain falls into the jonquil's golden throat : 

"Whilst I weep, 
Thousands of red-fringed daisies are fast asleep ! 
Yes, every flower sleeps now, and none will wake — 
Even you, although I perish for your sake ! " 
Some one is sobbing the happy May-wood thro'. 
And the wood-doves whisper gently, "Who, love, 
who? 

Who ? " 

113 



And .1 slim yellow bird i^ocs slippin.i^ from spray 
k) spray ; 

" lIciT am I, (larliiiLj," siiis^s he, "quite close by 1 
All Ihe (lay laiij^hiuL^ ovei^ my nest of iiay" — 

Hark that cry 
Of the nightingale in the silence! — "Must I die 
l'\)i' lo\e, love, love, whili- Ihe ciimson hawthorn cup 
Brims full of joy, and the rosy moon curves up 
its sinking shell, as tlu" nii^hts mer^e into June?" 
And Ihe wood-(K)ves whisper s^ently, " Hush, ilear ! 

Si)on ! 

Soon ! " 

The limestoni' brook luns into the fei nv well, 

And all the swt-et May-faces stoop down to 
drink ; 
Atid a fairy chime swini^s out of its lilmy cell, 

Chink-a-chink ! 
The laburnum-chains ijiow Ioniser, link by link ; 
And the lithe yellow biid dips into his nest 
oi\ Ihe i^iound, 
*'Shc is fouiul!" siui^s the nii^htint^ale, "O my 

lovi\ she is found ! " 
Ami the tall wooil-hyaciuth opens its bugles blue, 
And Ihe wood-doves whisper <;eully, " Who, love? 
who ? 

Who?" 

. I //'(•(' E. (iiHiiiv/on. 



ri4 



LXXI. lUvcc Kisses 



.* „•* A ..'* 



l^^Ik'S'l" time he krscd inc. lie Ixil (»iily kissed 

* Tlir luii^crs of lliis li.iiid wlici cwilli I wiitc; 
And cvci since, il ,Ljrcw more rlr.iw and vvliilc, 
Slow Id woi Id .L^rcclinj^s, cpiiclc vvilli lis " Oli, list," 
When anj^cls speak. A i iiiLj <>! aniclliysl 
I eoiild not wvav Iich\ pkiinci lo my sii;lil, 

Than llial lii s( kiss. Tlic second passed in liei/^ld 
The liisl, and soii^hl Ihe lorehe.id, and hall-nhsscd, 
ILdC l.ilhn.!', on the hair. O hevond meed ! 

That was Ihe (,:hiisni ol h»ve, which love's own 

crown, 
Willi sanclilyini^ sweelncss, did precede. 
The Ihird npon my lips was folded down. 
In perfecl pmpic slale ; since when, indi'cd, 
I have been piond and said, " My love, my own." 

/','. /)'. lii im'nini*. 



I. XXII. Lov(> Me if I Live 



^ 40 4, 

t/'^ tj~ «/'* 



1 OVI-; me if I live ! 
* ^ Love me if I die ! 
Whal lo me is life or death, 
So that thou ait nij^h .-' 



Once I loved Hue rich. 
Now I love I hei' poor ; 

Ah ! whal is Ihcrc 1 could not, 
1^'or thy .sake, endure t 



Kiss mc f(M- my love ! 

Pay nu> (ov my pain ! 
Come, and niuiiuur in mv oar 

I low (liou lov'sl aijain ! 

Juinv (.'('/ //u"<r//. 



T^OUND lis (ho wild oioaluros. cnorlioad (ho 



LXXIll. (ncxMiwood Love .^t .*l .-* 

:^' ,.,,,. 

Ihulcriool (ho im^ss-daoks lilo and lovo wilh 

these ! 
I lo wear a fawn-skin, Ihon to dress in llowers : 
All (he loni* lone Suninier-day, that greenwood life 

ol onrs ! 

Kioli-paviliiMiod radior.- -s(ill (ho world wKhonl — 
Inside — Lj(^ld-riH>l'od silk-wallod siloneo rt>und 

abou( ! 
(Jueon i( (hoii on pin plo 1, a( waloh and ward 
Conehed beneath (ho oolumns, ija/.o, Ihy slave, 

love's i;nard ! 

So, for ns no world ? Lei (hroni^s press thee to 

me ! 
lip and down ainiil moii, lioarl by Iu\u ( (are we ! 
Welccnno svpialiil vosdiro. harsh voice, halolul (aco ! 
God is sinil, souls 1 and (hoii : wilh souls shonld 
s*.>nls have plaoo, 

l\obcii Bioicning. 
ii6 



Lxxiv. riu« rosic .< ,4 ,4 

/ A mVI': will vcnlmv in 

^- Wlurc il (lamiiu wfil he seen 

() liivc will \i-iiliiic in 

WIic'H' wisdom ;iiiK c li.is l)vv\\ ; 
l)iil I will down yoii livcr rovit 

AiiU)ii|4 llic wood sac- |^i c-cn — 
And :i' lo pii' a posii' 

'I'o my ain dcai May. 

Tiic- prinn'ost- I will pn', 

'i'lu' (iisllinf^ o' llic y^;ii', 
And 1 will pn" llic pink, 

'i'lic (inhlcni o' my dear, 
I'di ^.lu•'s lln' pink o' womankind, 

And l)looms willioiil a pcci 
And a' (o hi; a posic 

To my ain dear May. 

I'll pn' llic l)n<ldin;4 rose, 

When IMin'hns pccjis in view 
I''o|- it's like a hanmy kiss 

( )' liir swi'cl l)onnic niou' ; 
'I'lii; li}a(inlli loi t-onslancy, 

Wi' ih; nnilian^in^i; hlnc — 
And a' lo \)c. a posii- 

'\\) my ain dear May. 



TIk- lily il is pnK;, 
And (lie; lily il is lair 

117 



And in her lovely bosom 

I'll place the lily there ; 
The daisy's for simplicity, 

And unaffected air — 
And a' to be a posie 

To my ain dear May. 

The hawthorn I will pu' 

With its locks o' siller grey, 
Where, like an aged man, 

It stands at break o' day. 
But the songster's nest within the bush 

I winna tak away — 
And a' to be a posie 

To my ain dear May. 

The woodbine I will pu*. 

When the evening star is near, 
And the diamond drops o' dew 

Shall be her een sae clear : 
The violet's for modesty, 

Which weel she fa's to wear — 
And a' to be a posie 

To my ain dear May. 

I'll tie the posie round 

Wi' the silken band o' luve, 
And I'll place it in her breast, 

And I'll swear by a' abuve. 
That to my latest draught o' life 

The band will ne'er remuve — 
And this will be a posie 

To my ain dear May. 

Robert Burns. 
ii8 



LXXV. Garden-Fancies S J- ^ J' 

The Flower's Name 

T T ERE'S the garden she walked across, 

-*- ^ Arm ill my arm, such a short while since : 

Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss 

Hinders the hinges and makes them wince ! 
She must have reached this shrub ere she turned, 

As back with that murmur the wicket swung ; 
For she laid the poor snail my chance foot spurned, 

To feed and forget it the leaves among. 

Down this side of the gravel-walk 

She went while her robe's edge brushed the box : 
And here she paused in her gracious talk 

To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox. 
Roses, ranged in valiant row, 

I will never think that she passed 3^ou by ! 
She loves you, noble roses, I know ; 

But, yonder, see, where the rock-plants lie ! 

This flower she stopped at, finger on lip. 

Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim ; 
Till she gave me, with pride to make no sHp, 

Its soft meandering Spanish name : 
What a name ! was it love or praise ? 

Speech half-asleep or song half-awake ? 
I must learn Spanish, one of these days. 

Only for that slow sweet name's sake. 
119 



Roses, if I live and do well, 

I may bring her, one of these days, 
To fix you fast with as line a spell, 

Fit you each with his Spanish phrase ! 
But do not detain me now ; for she lingers 

There, like sunshine over the ground, 
And ever, I see her soft white lingers 

Searching after the bud she found. 

Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not, 

Stay as you are and be loved for ever ! 
Bud, if I kiss you 'tis that you blow not : 

Mnid, the shut pink mouth opens never ! 
For while it pouts, her fnigers wrestle. 

Twinkling the audacious leaves between, 
Till round they turn and down they nestle — 

Is not the dear mark still to be seen ? 

Where I find her not, beauties vanish ; 

Whither I follow her, beauties flee ; 
Is there no method to tell her in Spanish 

June's twice June since she breatlied it with me ? 
Come, bud, show me the least of her traces, 

Treasure my lady's lightest foot-fall ! 
— Ah, you may flout and turn up your faces — 

Roses, you are not so fair after all ! 

A^. Broii'ning. 



1 20 



VIII. Old-F'ashioned Blossoms 

Old-iuorld Love-sonizs 



121 



VIII 

Duke, r^ FELLOW, come : the song we Imd last 
^ night,— 

Mark it, Cesario : it is old and plain : 
The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, 
And the free maids that Vv^eave their thread 

with bones. 
Do use to chant it : it is silly sooth, 
And dallies with the innocence of Love 
Like the old age. 

William Shakespeare, " Twelfth Night." 



122 



;|^.., /S:=-r;-Af^^ 




LXXVr. Since First I Saw Your Face ^ 



OINCE first I saw your face, I resolved 
"^ To honour and renown you. 
If now I be despised, I wish 

My heart had never known you. 
What, I that loved and you that liked, 

Shall we begin to wrangle ? 
No, no, no, my heart is fast. 

And cannot disentangle. 

The sun, whose beams most glorious are, 

Rejoiceth all beholders : 
And your sweet beauty past compare 

Made my poor heart the bolder. 
Where beauty calls, and wit delights, 

And ties of kindness bind me. 
There, oh there, where'er I go, 

I leave my heart behind me, 

Thomas Ford. 

The Garden of Love. 12^ 



LXXVII. Phillidci's Love-call to Ilcr Cory- 
don and His l\c[)lying J^ Jt' Jf' 

Phil. /^^ORVDON, arise my Corydoii, 

^^-^ 'I'itiin shinelh clear. 
Cor. Who is it that calleth Corydon, 

Who is it that I hear ? 
yV//7. lMiilh(hi thy true love calleth thee, 
Arise then, arise then, 

Arise and keep thy Hock with nie. 
Cor. Phillida, my true love, is it she ? 
I come then, I come then, 

I come and keep my Hock with thee. 

Phil. Here are cherries ripe, my Corydon, 

Mat them for my sake. 
Cor. Here's my oaten l">ipe, my lovely one. 

Spot t toi" Ihee to make. 
Phil. Here are threads, my true one, line as silk, 

To knit thee, to knit thee, 

A pair oi stockin<j;s white as milk. 
Cor. Here are reeds, my true one, line and neat, 

To make thee, to make thee, 

A honnet to withstand the heat. 



Phil. I will leather tlowers, my Coiydon, 

To set in thy cap. 
Cor. 1 will gather pears, my lovely one, 

To put in thy lap. 
'•■I 



Pliil. I will buy my true love garters gay, 
For Sund.iys, for Sundays, 

To vvc.'ir about his Icj^s so tall. 
Cor. I will buy my true love yellow say, 
Vov Sundays, for Sundays, 

To wear about her middle small. 



Phil. When my Corydon sits on a hill 

Makini^ melody : 
Cor. When my lovely one ^oes to her wheel, 

Singing cheerily. 
Pliil. Sure methinks my true love doth excel 

I^^or sweetness, for sweetness. 

Our Pan, that old Arcadian kni^^hl. 
Cor. And methinks my true love bears the bell 

For clearness, for clearness, 

Beyond the nymphs that be so brij^ht. 



/V//7. Had my Corydon, my Corydon, 

Been (alack) her swain : 
Cor. Had my lovely one, my lovely one, 

Been in Ida plain : 
PJtil. Cynthia lOndymion iiad refus'd, 
Preferring, preferring, 

My Corydon to play witiial. 
Cor. The queen of love had been excus'd 
Bequeathing, be(juealhing, 
My Phillida the golden ball. 
125 



Phil. Yonder comes my mother, Corydon, 

Whither shall I fly ? 
Cor. Under yonder beech, my lovely one, 

While she passeth by. 
Phil. Say to her thy true love was not here : 
Remember, remember, 
To-morrow is another day. 
Cor. Doubt me not, my true love, do not fear, 
Farewell then, farewell then. 
Heaven keep our loves alway. 

Ignoto. 



LXXVIII. An Odd Conceit Jk Jk J^ 

T OVELY kind and kindly loving, 

-*— ' Such a mind were worth the moving ; 

Truly fair and fairly true, — 

Where are all these but in you ? 

Wisely kind and kindly wise, 
Blessed life, wliere such love lies ! 
Wise and kind and fair and true, — 
Lovely live all these in you. 

Sweetly dear and dearly sweet. 
Blessed, where these blessings meet ! 
Sweet, fair, wise, kind, blessed, true, — 
Blessed be all these in you ! 

Nicholas Breton. 
126 



LXXIX. The Bailiff's Daughter of Islington 

nPHERE". was a youthe, and a well - beloved 
-*- youthe, 

And he was a squire's son ; 
He loved the bayliffe's daughter dearc 

That lived in Islington. 

Yet she was coye, and would not believe 

That he did love her soe, 
Noe, nor at any time would she 

Any countenance to him showe. 

But when his friends did understand 

His fond and foolish minde, 
They sent him up to faire London, 

An apprentice for to binde. 

And when he had been seven long yeares, 

And never his love could see, — 
" Many a teare have I shed for her sake, 

When she little thought of mee." 

Then all the maids of Islington 

Went forth to sport and playe, 
All but the bayliffe's daughter deare ; 

She secretly stole awaye. 

She pulled off her gowne of greenc, 
And put on ragged attire, 
127 



And to faire London she would go, 
Her true love to enquire. 

And as she went along the high road. 
The weather being hot and drye, 

She sat her downe upon a green bank, 
And her true love came riding bye. 

She started up, with a colour soe redd, 

Catching hold of his bridle-reine ; 
" One penny, one penny, kind sir," she sayd, 
" Will ease me of much paine." 

" Before I give you one penny, sweet-heart, 

Praye tell me where you were borne." 
"At Islington, kind sir," said she, 
"Where I have had many a scorne." 

" I pry thee, sweet-heart, then tell to mee, 

O tell me, whether you knowe 
The bayliffe's daughter of Islington." 

" She is dead, long agoe." 

" If she be dead, then take my horse. 

My saddle, and bridle also ; 
For I will into some farr countrye. 

Where noe man shall me knowe." 

" O staye, O staye, thou goodlye youthc. 
She standeth by thy side ; 
128 



She is here alive, she is not dead, 
And readye to be thy bride." 

" O farewell griefe, and welcome joye, 

Ten thousand times therefore ; 
For nowe I have founde mine owne true love, 

Whom I thought I should never see more." 

Old Ballad. 

LXXX. The Singing Shepherd ^ ^ 

JOLLY shepherd, singing on a hill, 
On a hill so merrily. 
On a hill so cheerily, 
Fear not, shepherd, thus to pipe thy fill. 
Till every vale, till every plain. 
Both sing and say. Love feels no pain ! 

Jolly shepherd, singing in the sun, 

In the sun so merrily. 

In the sun so cheerily. 
Sing forth thy songs, and let thy rhymes run 
Down to the dales from the hills above. 
Both sing and say. No life like love ! 

Jolly shepherd, singing in the shade, 

In the shade so merrily. 

In the shade so cheerily, 
Joy in thy life, life of shepherd's trade, 
Joy in thy love, love full of glee. 
Both sing and say. Sweet Love for me ! 
129 



Jolly shepherd, shepliercl here or there, 

Here or there so merrily, 

Here or there so cheerily. 
Or in thy chat, or in thy cheer, 
In every jig, in every lay. 
Both sing and say, Love lasts for aye ! 

John WooiioiK 

LXXXI. Madrigal J> J> J> J^ 

T OVE not me for comely grace, 
■^-^ For my pleasing eye or face, 
Nor for any outward part : 
No, nor for a constant heart ! 
For these may fail or turn to ill : 

So thou and I shall sever. 
Keep therefore a true woman's eye. 
And love me still, but know not why ! 
So hast thou the same reason still 

To dote upon me ever. 

John Wilbyc. 



LXXXI I. A Dialogue between Him and 
His Heart ^ J^ J^ J^ J- J' 

A T her fair hands how have I grace entreated, 
-^"^ With prayers oft repeated ! 
Yet still my love is thwarted : 
Heart, let her go, for she'll not be converted — 
130 



Say, shall she go ? 
O no, no, no, no, no : 
She is most fair, though she be marble-hearted. 

How often have my sighs declared mine anguish. 

Wherein I daily languish ! 

Yet doth she still procure it : 

Heart, let her go, for I cannot endure it. 

Say, shall she go ? 

O no, no, no, no, no : 
She gave the wound, and she alone must cure it. 

But shall I still a true affection owe her, 
Which prayers, sighs, tears, do show her, 
And shall she still disdain me ? 
Heart, let her go, if they no grace can gain me. 

Say, shall she go ? 

O no, no, no, no, no : 
She made me hers, and hers she will retain me. 

But if the love that hath, and still doth burn me. 

No love at length return me. 

Out of my thoughts I'll set her. 

Heart, let her go ; oli, heart, I pray thee, let her. 

Say, shall she go ? 

O no, no, no, no, no : 
Fixed in the heart, how can the heart forget her ? 

IV. Davidson. 



131 



LXXXIII. The Praise of Love J> ^ 

"pAIN would I change that note 

-*- To which fond love hath charm'd mc, 

Long, long to sing by rote, 

Fancying that that harm'd me ; 
Yet when this thought doth come, 
" Love is the perfect sum 

Of all delight," 

I have no other choice 
Either for pen or voice 

To sing or write. 

O Love, they wrong thee much 

That say thy sweet is bitter. 
When thy rich fruit is such 

As nothing can be sweeter. 
Fair house of joy and bliss 
Where truest pleasure is, 
I do adore thee ; 

I know thee what thou art, 
I serve thee with my heart, 
And fall before thee. 

Tobias Hume. 



132 



IX. A Green Pleasance 

Love of Friends 



133 



IX 

npHERE are wonders in true affection. It is a 
-^ body of enigmas, mysteries, and riddles ; 
wherein two so become one as they both become 
two. I love my friend before myself, and yet, 
methinks, I do not love him enough. Some few 
months hence, my multiplied affection will make 
me believe I have not loved him at all. 

Sir Thomas Browne, " Religio Medici." 



134 




LXXXIV. The Friendship-Flower J> ji> 

VX/'HEN first the Friendship-flower is planted 

Within the garden of your soul, 
Little of care or thought is wanted 

To guard its beauty fresh and whole ; 
But when the full impassioned age 

Has well revealed the magic bloom, 
A wise and holy tutelage 

Alone avoids the open tomb. 

It is not absence you should dread, 

For Absence is the very air 
In which, if sound at root, the head 

Shall wave most wonderful and fair r 
With sympathies of joy and sorrow 

Fed, as with morn and even dews. 
Ideal colouring it may borrow 

Richer than ever earthly hues. 

Lord Houghtonl 
135 



LXXXV. The Meeting of the Waters J. 

nPHERE is not in the wide world a valley so 
-*- sweet, 
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters 

meet ; 
Oh ! the last rays of feeling and life must depart, 
Ere the bloom from that valley shall fade from 

my heart. 



Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the 

scene 
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green ; 
'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill. 
Oh ! no — it was something more exquisite still. 



'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were 

near, 
Who made every dear scene of enchantment 

more dear. 
And who felt how the best charms of Nature 

improve, 
When we see them reflected from looks that we 

love. 



Sweet vale of Ovoca ! how calm could I rest 
In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love 
best, 

136 



Where the storms that we feel in this cold world 

should cease, 
And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in 

peace. 

Thomas Moore. 

LXXXVI. The Best of Friends J^ ,^ 

"\ T O truer friend than woman man discovers, 
-'■ ^ So that they have not been, nor can be 
lovers. 

Aiiihor Unknown. 

LXXXVI I. I saw in Louisiana a Live- 
Oak Growing ^ ^ J^ J^ Ji^ 

T SAW in Louisiana a live-oak growing, 

^ All alone stood it and the moss hung down 

from the branches, 
Without any companion it grew there uttering 

joyous leaves of dark green, 
And its look, rude, unbending, lusty, made me 

think of myself. 
But I wonder'd how it could utter joyous leaves 

standing alone there without its friend near, 

for I know I could not. 
And I broke off a twig with a certain number of 

leaves upon it, and twined around it a little 

moss, 

137 



And brought it away, and I have placed it in 

sight in my room, 
It is not needed to remind me as of my own dear 

friends, 
(For I beheve lately I think of little else than of 

them,) 
Yet it remains to me a curious token, it makes me 

think of manly love ; 
For all that, and though the live-oak glistens there 

in Louisiana solitary in a wide flat space. 
Uttering joyous leaves all its life without a friend, 

a lover near, 
I know very well I could not. 

Walt Whitman. 

LXXXVIII. To a Friend ^ ^ e^ 

Befo7'e taking a Join-ney 

T HAVE examined and do find, 

^ Of all that favour me 

There's none I grieve to leave behind 

But only, only thee. 
To part with thee, I needs must die. 
Could parting scp'rate thee and I. 

Our changed and mingled souls are grown 

To such acquaintance now. 
That if each would resume their own, 

Alas, we know not how. 



We have each other so engrost 
That each is in the union lost. 

And thus we can no absence know, 

Nor shall we be confined ; 
Our active souls will daily go 

To learn each other's mind. 
Nay, should we never meet to sense, 
Our souls would hold intelligence. 

Thy larger soul in me shall lie. 

And all thy thoughts reveal ; 
Then back again witli mine shall fly, 

And thence to me shall steal. 
Thus still to one another tend. 
Such is the sacred name of Friend. 

Katherine Phillips. 



LXXXIX. A Temple to Friendship Jt' 

" A TEMPLE to Friendship," said Laura, cn- 
■^ ^ chanted, 

"I'll build in this garden, — the thought is 

divine !" 

Her temple was built, and she now only wanted 

An image of Friendship to place on the shrine. 

She flew to a sculptor, who set down before her 

A Friendship, the fairest his art could invent ; 
But so cold and so dull, that the youthful adorer 
Saw plainly this was not the idol she meant. 
139 



"O never," slic cried, "could I think of enslirinin^ 
An image wliose looks are so joyless and dim : - 
l>nt yon little god, upon roses reclining, 

We'll make, if ycni please, sir, a Friendship of 
him." 
So the bargain was struck : with the little god 
laden 
She joyfully Hew to her shrine in the grove : 
" I'^arewell," said the sculptor, "you're not the first 
maiden 
Who came hut for Friendship, and took away 
Love." 

Thomas Moore, 



XC. Friendship J^ J^ J^ c)^ ^ 

A RUDDY drop of manly blood 
■^^^ The surging sea outweighs, 
The world uncertain comes and goes, 

The lover rooted stays. 
I fancied he was lied, — 

And, after many a year. 
Glowed unexhausted kindliness 

Like daily sunrise there. 
My careful heart was free again, 

O friend, my bosom said. 
Through thee alone the sky is arched, 

Through thee the rose is red ; 
All things through thee take nobler form, 
140 



And look beyond the earth, 
The mill-round of our fate appears 

A sun-path in thy worth. 
Me too thy nobleness has taught 

To master my despair ; 
The fountains of my hidden life 

Are throu<^fh thy friendshij-) fair. 

A*. IV. Emerson. 

XCI. Farewell! — but whenever you wel- 
come the Hour J^ J^ J> J> J> 

TT^AREWELL ! — but whenever you welcome the 

^ hour 

That awakens the niLiht-son<f of mirtli in your 

bower, 
Then think of the friend who once welcomed it 

too, 
And fori^ot his own griefs to be happy with you. 
His griefs may return, not a hope may remain 
Of the few tliat have brighten'd his pathway of 

pain, 
Pjut he ne'er will forget the short vision that threw 
Its enchantment around him, while lingering with 

you. 

And still on that evening, when pleasure hlls up 
To the highest top sparkle each heart and each 

cup, 
Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, 
141 



My soul, liappv friends, sluill he willi you that 

ui.i^hl ; 
Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your 

wiles. 
And return to me beaniin*^ all o'er with your 

smiles — 
Too blest, if it tells me that, 'mid the gay cheer, 
Some kind voice had murmur'd, " I wish he wx'ie 

here ! " 

Let b'ale do her worst ; there are relies of joy, 
Bright dreams of the past, which she eaimot 

destroy. 
Which Clime in the night-time of sorrow and care, 
And bring back the features that joy used to wear. 
Long, long be my heart with suc.h memories lill'd ! 
Like the vase, in which roses have once been 

distill'd— 
You may break, you may shatter the vase if you 

will, 
Hut the scent of the roses will hang round it still. 

Tlioinns Moore. 

XCM I. Of tbe terrible doubt of Appearances 

■\1 nil^N he whom I love travels with me or 

* * sits a long while lu^lding me by the hand. 

When the subtle air, the impalpable, liie sense that 

words and reason hold ni^t, surrountl us ami 

pervade us, 

142 



Then I am cli:ir<^c(l with iinlokl and unlcllablc 
wisdom, I am silcnl, I reciuirc nolliin/; liuihcr, 

I cannot answer the ciurslion of ap[iearances oi- (hat 
of identity beyond the j^rave, 

Hut I walk or sit indifferent, I am satisfied, 

lie ahold of my hand has completely satished 
me. IValf Wliihiuiu. 



43 



X. Night and the Nightingale 

Serenades 



145 



X 

' I ^HESE things are but toys, to come among such 
-*- serious observations. But yet, since princes will 
have such things, it is better they should be graced 
with elegancy. . . . And generally let it be noted that 
those things which I have set down here are such 
as do naturally take the sense, . . . things of great 
beauty and pleasure : for they feed and relieve the 
eye, before it be full of the same object. 

Francis Bacon, "Essays." 




'/-A 






t^^^y::r>-;^^^^' 



H 



XCIII. The Night Piece J> J> Jt, 

To Julia 

ER e3^cs the glow-worm lend thee, 

The shooting stars attend thee ; 
And the elves also, 
Whose little eyes glow. 
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 

No Will-o'-tlv-Wisp mis-light thee, 
Nor snake, or slow-worm bite thee ; 

But on, on thy way. 

Not making a stay. 
Since ghost there's none to affriglit thee. 

Let not the dark thee cumber ; 

What though the moon do slumber ? 
The stars of the night 
Will lend thee their light, 

Like tapers clear, without number. 

Then, Julia, let me woo thee. 
Thus, thus to come unto me ; 

And when I shall meet 

Thy silv'ry feet, 
My soul I'll pour into thee. 



Robert Herrick. 



The Garden of Love. 



^47 



XCIV. Cleveland's Serenade Jf' S- J^ 
From " The Pirate " 



L' 



OVE wakes and weeps 
While Beauty sleeps ! 
O for music's softest numbers, 
To prompt a theme 
For Beauty's dream, 
Soft as the pillow of her slumbers ! 

Through groves of palm 

Sigh gales of balm, 
Fireflies on the air are wheeling ; 

While through the gloom 

Comes soft perfume. 
The distant beds of flowers revealing. 

O wake and live ! 

No dreams can give 
A shadowed bliss the real excelling ; 

No longer sleep, 

From lattice peep. 
And list the tale that love is telling ; 

Sir Walter Scott. 



148 



XCV. Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal J^ 

"V T OW sleeps the crimson petal, now the white ; 
■*■ ^ Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk ; 
Nor winks the gold fish in the porphyry font : 
The firefly wakens : waken thou with me. 



Now lies the Earth all Danae to the stars. 
And all thy heart lies open unto me. 

Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves 
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me. 

Now folds the lily all her sweetness up, 
And slips into the bosom of the lake : 
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip 
Into my bosom and be lost in me. 

Lord Tennyson. 



XCVI. While She lies Sleeping ,^ ^ 

"X 1 ^EEP you no more, sad fountains, 

^ * What need you flow so fast ? 
Look how the snowy mountains 

Heaven's sun doth gently waste. 
But my sun's heavenly eyes 
View not your weeping. 
That now lie sleeping 
Softly, now softly lie sleeping ! 
149 



Sleep is a reconciling, 

A rest that peace begets; 
Doth not the sun rise smiling, 

When fair at e'en he sets ? 
Rest you, then, rest, sad eyes ! 

Melt not in weeping. 

While she lies sleeping 
Softly, now softly lies sleeping ! 

John Dowlaiid. 



XCVII. Bedouin Love Song ^ ^ ^ 

T7ROM the Desert I come to thee 
-*- On a stallion shod with fire ; 
And the winds are left behind 

In the speed of my desire. 
Under thy window I stand. 

And the midnight hears my cry : 
I love thee, I love but thee, 
With a love that shall not die 
Till the sun grows cold, 
And the stars are old, 
And the leaves of the Judgment 
Book unfold/ 

Look from thy windov^' and see 

My passion and my pain ; 
I lie on the sands below, 

And I faint in thy disdain. 
Let the night-winds touch thy brow 
150 



With the heat of my burning sigh, 
And melt thee to hear the vow 
Of a love that shall not die 

Till ilic sun f^rows cold, 

And the stars are old, 

And the leaves of the Judgment 

Book unfold ! 

My steps are nightly driven, 
By the fever in my breast, 
To hear from thy lattice breathed 

The word that shall give me rest. 
Open the door of thy heart, 

And open thy chamber door. 
And my kisses shall teach thy lips 
The love that shall fade no more 
Till the sun grows cold, 
And the stars are old 
And the lea7>es of the Judgment 
Book unfold. 

Bayard Taylor.^ 

XCVTII. Spanish Serenade J^ J^ ^ 

OTARS of the summer night 
"^^ Far in yon azure deeps, 
Hide, hide your golden light ! 

She sleeps ! 
My lady sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 



Moon of the summer night ! 

Far down yon western steeps 
Sink, sink in silver Hght ! 

She sleeps ! 
My lady sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 

Wind of the summer night ! 

Where yonder woodbine creeps, 
Fold, fold thy pinions light ! 

She sleeps ! 
My lady sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 

Dreams of the summer night ! 

Tell her, her lover keeps 
Watch ! while in slumbers light 

She sleeps ! 
My lady sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 

H. W. Longfellow. 



XCIX. An Elizabethan Serenade j* 

T 1 ^HO is it that this dark night 

* * Underneath my window plaineth ? 
It is one who from thy sight 
Being, ah, exiled, disdaineth 
Every other vulgar light. 
152 



Why, alas, and arc you he ? 

Be not yet those fancies changed ? 
Dear, when you ftnd change in me, 

Though from me you be estranged. 
Let my change to ruin be. 

Well, in absence this will die ; 

Leave to see, and leave to wonder. 
Absence sure will help, if I 

Can learn how my self to sunder 
From what in my heart doth lie. 

But time v^'ill these thoughts remove : 
Time doth work what no men knoweth. 

Time doth as the subject prove ; 

With time still the affection groweth 

In the faithful turtle-dove. 

What if you new beauties see, 
Will they not stir new affection ? 

I will think they pictures be 
(Image-like, of saints' perfection) 

Poorly counterfeiting thee. 

But your reason's purest light 

Bids you leave such minds to nourish. 
Dear, do reason no such spite ; 

Never doth thy beauty flourish 
More than in my reason's sight. 

Sir Philip Sidney 
153 



C. Were I a Drop of Dew J- J- J> 

WERE I a drop of dew 
This hour, 
And you 

Some fair and fragrant flow'r, — 
O swiftly there I'd fall, 
And all 
The night 
Sleep in your petals soft and white. 

Then when the morning blue 

Should break, 

And you 

From out your dream should wake. 

Without a sign or word, 

Unheard, 

Unseen, 

I'd fade amid your leaves of green ! 

Maurice Clare. 

CI. Indian Serenade ^ ^ ^ ^ J^ 

T ARISE from dreams of thee 

■*- In the iirst sweet sleep of night. 

When the winds are breathing low, 

And the stars are shining bright : 
I arise from dreams of thee, 

And a spirit in ni}' feet 
Has led me — who knows how ? — 

To thy chamber-window, Sweet ! 
154 



The wandering airs they faint 

On the dark, the silent stream — 
The Champak odours fail 

Like sweet thoughts in a dream ; 
The nightingale's complaint, 

It dies upon her heart ; — 
As I must die on thine, 

Oh, beloved as thou art ! 

O lift me from the grass ! 

I die, I faint, I fail ! 
Let thy love in kisses rain 

On my lips and eyelids pale. 
My cheek is cold and white, alas! 

My heart beats loud and fast ; — 
Oh ! press it close to thine again, 

Where it will break at last. 

P. B. Shelley, 



J55 



XI Butterflies 

Lighter Love L.yj-ics 



157 



XI 

Clot c II. T WOULD this music would come : I am 
^ advised to give lier music, . . . they say, 
it will penetrate. {Enter Musicians.) Come 
on ; tune. If you can penetrate her with 
your fingers, so ; we'll try with voices 
too : if none will do, let her remain : but 
I'll ne'er give over. First, a very excellent 
good-conceited thing : after, a wonderful 
sweet air, with admirable rich words to it, — 
and then let her consider. 

William Shakespeare, " Cymbeline." 



v..:"" ■ ' 






CII. 



The Clown's Song 



/"^ ]\1ISTRESS mine, where are you roaming? 
^-^ O stay and hear ; your true love's coming, 

That can sing both high and low : 
Trip no further, pretty sweeting ; 
Journeys end in lovers' meeting, 

Every wise man's son doth know. 

What is love ? 'Tis not hereafter ; 
Present mirth hath present laughter ; 

What's to come is still unsure ; 
In delay there lies no plenty ; 
Then come kiss me, swect-and-twenty, 

Youth's a stuff will not endure. 

William Shakespeare. 



159 



cm. Song by a Person of Quality J' 

T SAID to my heart, between sleeping and 

^ waking, 

Thou wild thing, that always art leaping or 

aching, 
What black, brown, or fair, in what clime, in 

what nation, 
By turns has not taught thee a pit-a-pat-ation ? 



Thus accused, the wild thing gave this sober 

reply : 
See the heart without motion, though Cclia pass 

by! 
Not the beauty she has, or the wit that she 

borrows, 
Gives the eye any joys, or the heart any sorrows. 

When our Sappho appears, she whose wit's so 

refined, 
I am forced to applaud with the rest of mankind j, 
Whatever she says is with spirit and fire ; 
Every word I attend ; but I only admire. 

Prudentia as vainly would put in her claim. 
Ever gazing on Heaven, tho' man is her aim : 
'Tis love, not devotion, that turns up her eyes ; 
Those stars of the world are too good for the 
skies. 

1 60 



But Chloe so lively, so easy, so fair, 

Her wit so genteel, without art, without care ; 

When she comes in my way, the emotion, the 

pain, 
The leapings, the achings, return all again. 

O wonderful creature ! a woman of reason ! 
Never grave out of pride, never gay out of 

season ! 
When so easy to guess who this angel should be, 
Would one think Mrs. Howard ne'er dreamt it 

was she ? 

Lord Peterborough. 



CIV. Phillis is My only Joy ^ ,3t ^ 

"P)HILLIS is my only joy, 
•^ Faithless as the winds or seas, 
Sometimes cunning, sometimes coy. 
Yet she never fails to please ; 

If with a frown 

I am cast down, 

Phillis smiling 

And beguiling. 
Makes me happier than before. 

Though alas ! too late I find 

Nothing can her fancy fix. 
Yet the moment she is kind 

I forgive her for her tricks ; 
i6i 



Which though I see, 
I can't get free, — 
She deceiving, 
I beheving, — 
What need lovers wish for more ? 

Sir diaries Scdley. 



CV. Love-Thoughts J' ^ J' 



T WOULD be cahn,— I would be free 
•^ From thoughts and images of Thee ; 
But Nature and thy will conspire 
To bar me from my fair desire. 

The trees are moving with thy grace, 

The water will reflect thy face ; 

The very flowers are plotting deep, 

And in thy breath their odours steep. 

The breezes, when mine eyes I close. 
With sighs, just like mine own, impose ; 
The nightingale then takes her part. 
And plays thy voice against my heart. 

If Thou then in one golden chain 
Canst bind the world, I strive in vain ; 
Perchance my wisest scheme would be 
To join this great conspiracy. 

Lord Houghton. 
162 



CVI. The Promise ^ J- ^ J- ^ 

/"BROWNED with flowers, I saw fair Amarillis 
^-^ By Thirsis sit, hard by a fount of crystal, 
And with her hand more white than snow or 
Hhes 
On sand she wrote, " My faith shall be 
immortal," 
And suddenly a storm of wind and weather 
Blew all her faith and sand away together. 

William Bvrd. 



CVI I. Last May a Braw Wooer J' J- 

T AST May a braw wooer cam down the lang 

J-- glen. 
And sair wi' his love he did deave me ; 

I said there was naething I hated like men. 

The deuce gae wi'm, to believe me, believe me, 
The deuce gae wi'm, to believe me. 

He spak o' the darts in my bonnie black een. 
And vowed for my love he was dying ; 

I said he might die when he liked for Jean : 
The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying, 
The Lord forgie me for lying. 

A weel-stocked mailen — himsel' for the laird — 

And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers : 
I never loot on that I kenned it, or car'd, 
163 



But thought that I might hae waiir ofters, waur 

offers, 
But thought I might hae waur offers. 

But what wad ye think ? In a fortnight or less — 
The deil tak his taste to gae near her ! 

He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess, 
Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her, could 

bear her, 
Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her. 

But a' the neist week as I fretted wi' care, 

I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock, 
And wha but my fine fickle lover was there ! 

I glowered as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock, 

I glowered as I'd seen a warlock. 

But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink. 
Lest neebors might say I was saucy ; 

My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink, 
And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie, 
And vow'd I was his dear lassie. 

I spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet, 

Gin she had recovered her hearin, 
And how her new shoon fit her auld shackl't 
feet. 
But Heavens ! how he fell a swearin', a swearin', 
But Heavens ! how he fell a swearin'. 
164 



He begged, for Gudesake, I wad be his wife, 
Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow ; 

So, e'en to preserve the poor body in life, 

I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow, 
I think I maun wed him to-morrow. 

Robert Burns. 



CVIII. The Dissembler J^ J^ J^ ^ 

'T'^HE merchant, to secure his treasure, 

Conveys it in a borrow'd name : 
Euphelia serves to grace my measure; 
But Chloe is my real flame. 

My softest verse, my darling lyre 

Upon Euphelia's toilet lay ; 
When Chloe noted her desire. 

That I should sing, that I should play. 

My lyre I tune, my voice I raise; 

But with my numbers mix my sighs : 
And while I sing Euphelia's praise, 

I fix my soul on Chloe's eyes. 

Fair Chloe blush'd : Euphelia frown'd : 

I sung and gazed : I play'd and trembled : 
And Venus to the Loves around 

Remark'd, how ill we all dissembled. 

Matthew Prior. 
165 



CIX. When Love is Kind .^ .^ .^ 

111 7 HEN Love is kind, 
* ^ Cheerful and free, 
Love's sure to find 
Welcome from me. 

Hut when Love brings 

Heartache or pang, 
Tears, and such things — 

Love may go hang ! 

If Love can sigh 

For one alone, 
Well pleased am I 

To be that one. 

But should I see 

Love giv'n to rove 
To two or three, 

Then — goodbye, Love ! 

Love must, in short. 

Keep fond and true, 
Through good report. 

And evil too. 

Else, liere I swear, 

Young Love may go, 
For aught I care — 
To Jericho ! 

TJioinas Moore. 
166 



ex. A Hymn to Love J- ^ Jt' 

T WILL confess, 

-^ With cheerfulness, 
Love is a thing so hkes me, 

Thut, let her lay 

On me all day, 
I'll kiss the hand that strikes nic. 

I will not, I, 

Now blubb'ring cry : 
It, ah ! too late repents me, 

That I did fall 

To love at all, 
Since love so much contents me. 

No, no, I'll he 

In fetters free ; 
While others they sit wringing 

Their hands for pain, 

I'll entertain 
The wounds of love with singing. 

Robert Hcrrick. 



CXI. Sympathy J' J' J' ^ ^ 

A KNIGHT and a lady once met in a grove, 
■^^^ While each was in quest of a fugitive love ; 
A river ran mournfully murmuring by, 
And they wept in its waters for sympathy. 
167 



" O, never was knight such a sorrow that bore ! " 
" O, never was maid so deserted before ! " 
" From life and its woes let us instantly fly, 
And jump in together for company !" 

They search'd for an eddy that suited the deed, 
But here was a bramble, and there was a weed ; 
"How tiresome it is !" said the fair with a sigh; 
So they sat down to rest them in company. 

They gazed at each other, the maid and the knight ; 
How fair was her form, and how goodly his height ! 
"One mournful embrace," sobbed the youth, "ere 

we die !" 
So kissing and crying kept company. 

" O, had I but loved such an angel as you ! " 
"O, had but my swain been a quarter as true !" 
" To miss such perfection how blinded was I ! " 
Sure now they were excellent company ! 

At length spoke the lass, 'twixt a smile and a tear, 
" The weather is cold for a watery bier ; 
When summer returns we may easily die, 
Till then let us sorrow in company." 

Reginald Hcber. 



i68 



CXII. The Stolen Heart ^ J> , 

T PRYTHEE send me back my heart, 
•^ Since I cannot have thine ; 
For if from yours you will not part, 
Why then shouldst thou have mine ? 

Yet now I think on't, let it lie ; 

To find it were in vain, 
For thou'st a thief in either eye 

Would steal it back again. 

Why should two hearts in one breast lie, 
And yet not lodge together ? 

O love ! where is thy sympathy, 
If thus our breasts you sever? 

But love is such a mystery, 

I cannot find it out ; 
For when I think I'm best resolved, 

I then am most in doubt. 

Then farewell love, and farewell woe, 

I will no longer pine ; 
For I'll believe I have her heart 

As much as she hath mine. 

Sir John Suckling. 



The Garcieit of Love. i6q 



CXIII. Dear Fanny Ji J^ Jt, j, 

"OHE has beauty, but still you must keep your 
^^ heart cool : 

She has wit, but you mustn't be caught so " : 
Thus Reason advises, but Reason's a fool, 

And 'tis not the first time I have thought so, 

Dear Fanny, 
'Tis not the first time I have thought so. 

" She is lovely ; then love her, nor let the bliss 
fly; 
'Tis the charm of youth's vanishing season"; 
Thus Love has advised me, and who will deny 
That Love reasons much better than Reason, 

Dear Fanny ? 
Love reasons much better than Reason. 

Thomas Moore. 



CXIV. The Deceiver J^ ^ ^ J' 

YOU smiled, you spoke, and I believed. 
By every word and smile deceived. 
Another man would hope no more— 
Nor hope what I had hoped before : 
But let not this last wish be vain. 
Deceive— deceive me once again ! 

Walter Savage Landor. 
170 



CXV. Phillida Flouts me ^ ^ 

/^H, what a plague is love ! 
^-^ I cannot bear it, 
She will inconstant prove, 

I greatly fear it ; 
It so torments my mind, 
That my heart faileth, 
She wavers with the wind, 

As a ship saileth ; 
Please her the best I may, 
She looks another way ; 
Alack and well a-day ! 
Phillida flouts me. 

I often heard her say 

That she loved posies ; 
In the last month of May 

I gave her roses, 
CowsHps and gillyflow'rs 

And the sweet lily, 
I got to deck the bow'rs 

Of my dear Philly ; 
She did them all disdain, 
And threw them back again ; 
Therefore, 'tis flat and plain 

Phillida flouts me. 

Which way soe'er I go, 
She still torments me ; 
171 



And whatsoe'er I do, 

Nothing contents me : 
I fade, and pine away 

With grief and sorrow ; 
I fall quite to decay, 

Like any shadow ; 
Since 'twill no better be, 
I'll bear it patiently ; 
Yet all the world may see 

Phillida flouts me. 

Seventeenth Century Song. 

CXVI. Tarn Glen J^ Jt ^ J^ ^ 

A /r Y heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie ! 
''■■'■ Some counsel unto me come len', 
To anger them a' is a pity, 

But what will I do wi' Tam Glen ? 

I'm thinking wi' sic a braw fellow, 
In poortith I might mak a fen' ; 

What care I in riches to wallow, 
If I maunna marr}' Tam Glen ? 

There's Lowrie the laird o' Dumeller, 

" Guid-day to you," — brute ! he comes ben : 

He brags and he braws o' his siller, 
But when will he dance like Tam Glen ? 

My minnie does constantly deave me. 
And bids me beware o' young men ; 
172 



They flatter, she says, to deceive me. 
But wha can think sae o' Tarn Glen ? 

My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him, 
He'll gie me gude hunder marks ten : 

But, if it's ordained I maun take him, 
O wha will I get but Tam Glen ? 

Yestreen at the valentine's dealing, 

My heart to my mou' gied a sten ; 
For thrice I drew ane without failing. 

And thrice it was written — Tam Glen. 

The last Halloween I was waukin 
My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken ; 

His likeness cam up the house staukin, 
And the very grey breeks o' Tam Glen ! 

Come, counsel, dear Tittie ! don't tarry — 

I'll gie ye my bonnie black hen, 
Gif ye will advise me to marry 

The lad I lo'e dearly — Tam Glen. 

Robert Burns. 

CXVII. The Despairing Lover J^ jt 

DISTRACTED with care, 
For Phillis the fair, 
Since nothing can move her. 
Poor Damon, her lover. 
Resolves in despair 
173 



No longer to languish, 
Nor bear so much anguish ; 
But, mad with his love, 

To a precipice goes, 
"Where a leap from above 

Will soon finish his woes. 

When, in rage, he came there. 

Beholding how steep 
The sides did appear. 

And the bottom how deep ; 
His torments projecting, 
And sadly reflecting 
That a lover forsaken 

A new love may get ; 
But a neck when once broken. 

Can never be set : 

And that he could die 

Whenever he would ; 
But that he could live 

But as long as he could ; 
How grievous soever 

The torment might grow, 
He scorn'd to endeavour 

To finish it so. 
But bold, unconcern'd. 

At the thoughts of the pain, 
He calmly return'd 



William Walsh. 
74 



CXVIII. Thought from Catullus .* J> 

/"^HLOE, that dear bewitching prude, 
^^ Still calls me saucy, pert, and rude. 

And sometimes almost strikes me ; 
And yet I swear, I can't tell how. 
Spite of the knitting of her brow, 

I'm very sure she likes me. 

Ask you me why I fancy thus ? 
Why, I have call'd her jilt, and puss. 

And thought myself above her ; 
And yet I feel it to my cost. 
That when I rail against her most, 

I'm very sure I love her. 

Roberi Lloyd. 



175 



XII. The Bower 

The Ardent Lover, 



^ri 



XII 

nPHERE remains still in some small measure, 
^ beyond the merely formative and sustaining 
power, another, which we painters call passion : I 
don't know what the philosophers call it : we know 
it makes people red or white, and therefore it must 
be something itself, and perhaps it is the most truly 
" poetic " or " making " force of all, creating a world 
of its own out of a glance, or a sigh. ... It seems 
to me the feelings of the purest and most mightily 
passioned human souls are likely to be the truest. 
^ohn Ruskin, " Ethics of the Dust." 




CXIX. Cean Dubh Deelish ^ J^ J' J^ 

"pUT your head, darling, darling, darling, 
-*- Your darling black head my heart above ; 
Oh, mouth of honey, with the thyme for fragrance, 

Who, with heart in breast, could deny you 
love ? 
Oh, many and many a young girl for me is pining 

Letting her locks of gold to the cold wind free, 
For me, the foremost of our gay young fellows ; 

But I'd leave a hundred, pure love, for thee ! 
Then put your head, darling, darling, darling, 

Your darling black head my heart above ; 
Oh, mouth of honey, with the thyme for fragrance, 

Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love ? 
Sir Samuel Ferguson (adapted from the Irish). 



{Proii. Cawn dhu cleelisli — /.c'.," Dear black head.") 
179 



CXX. To Celia ^ ^ ^ J- Jt' ,^ 

T^RINK to me only with thine eyes, 
^^ And I will pledge with mine ; 
Or leave a kiss but in the cup, 

And I'll not look for wine. 
The thirst that from the soul doth rise 

Doth ask a drink divine ; 
But might I of Jove's nectar sip, 

I would not change for thine. 

I sent thee late a rosy wreath, 

Not so much honouring thee, 
As giving it a hope that there 

It could not withered be : 
But thou thereon didst only breathe : 

And sent'st it back to me ; 
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, 

Not of itself, but thee ! 

Ben Jonson. 



CXXI. There's a Woman like a Dew-drop 

' I ^HERE'S a woman like a dew-drop, she's so 
-•- purer than the purest ; 
And her noble heart's the noblest, yes, and her 

sure faith's the surest : 
And her eyes are dark and humid, like the depth 
on depth of lustre 

1 80 



Hid i' the harebell, wliile her tresses, sunnier 

than the wild-grape cluster, 
Gush in golden-tinted plenty down her neck's 

rose-misted marble : 
Then her voice's music . . . call it the well's 

bubbling, the bird's warble ! 

And this woman says, '* My days were sunless 

and my nights were moonless, 
" Parched the pleasant April herbage, and the 

lark's heart's outbreak tuneless, 
" If you loved me not ! " And I who — ah, for 

words of flame ! adore her ! 
Who am made to lay my spirit prostrate palpably 

before her — 
I may enter at her portal soon, as now her 

lattice takes me. 
And by noontide as by midnight make her mine, 

as hers she makes me ! 

Robert Browning. 

CXXII. Faith's Avowal J> Jk Ji J^ 

T~\EAR, if 3^ou change, I'll never choose again ; 
-*-^ Sweet, if you shrink, I'll never think of love; 
Fair, if you fail, I'll judge all beauty vain ; 

Wise, if too weak, more wits I'll never prove. 
Dear, sweet, fair, wise, — change, shrink, nor be not 

weak ; 
And, on my faith, my faith shall never break. 
i8i 



Earth with her flowers shall sooner heaven adorn ; 

Heaven her bright stars through earth's dim 

globe shall move, 

Fire heat shall lose, and frosts of flames be born ; 

Air, made to shine, as black as hell shall prove : 

Earth, heaven, fire, air, the world transformed 

shall view, 
Ere I prove false to faith, or strange to you. 

John Dowland. 

CXXIII. Love's Philosophy J> J^ Jk 

' I ^HE fountains mingle with the river 
-■- And the rivers with the ocean. 
The winds of Heaven mix for ever 

With a sweet emotion ; 
Nothing in the world is single ; 

All things by a law divine 
In one another's being mingle, — 

Why not I with thine ? — 

See, the mountains kiss high Heaven 

And the waves clasp one another ; 
No sister-flower would be forgiven 

If it disdained its brother ; 
And the sunlight clasps the earth, 

And the moonbeams kiss the sea : 
What is all this sweet work worth, 

If thou kiss not me ? 

P. B. Shelley. 
182 



CXXIV. To Aiithca ,< ..* .!^ Jt> S 



T>rT) nic lo live, and I will live 
^ Thy Proteslaiil to be ; 
Or hid iiu- love, ;in(l I will j^ive 
A loviiiij' luMil lo lliee. 



A heart as soli, a heail as kind, 

A heart as sound and free, 
As ill tile whole world thou canst lind, 

That heart I'll |^ive to thee. 

Bid thai heart slay, and it will stay 

To honoiu' Ihy decree ; 
Oi" bid il lan<^uish ([uik' away, 

And't shall do so foi- Ihee. 



Hid me to weep, and I will weep. 

While I have eyes lo see ; 
And having none, yet I will keep 

A heart to weep foi- thee. 

Thou art my life, my love, my heart, 

The very eyes of me ; 
And hast command of every part, 
To live and die for tiiee. 

Rohc'ii Ifcirick. 
183 



CXXV. Maid of Athens J. S J^ ^ 

A /TAID of Athens, ere we part, 
''■■*• Give, oh give me back my heart ! 
Or, since that has left my breast, 
Keep it now, and take the rest 
Hear my vow before I go, 
7^oc moil, sas agapo.^ 

By those tresses unconfined. 
Woo'd by each ^gean wind ; 
By those hds whose jetty fringe 
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge ; 
By those wild eyes like the roe, 
Zoi' moil, sas agapo. 

By that lip I long to taste. 
By that zone-encircled waist. 
By all the token-flowers that tell 
What words can never speak so well ; 
By love's alternate joy and woe, 
Zoc moil, sas agapo. 

Maid of Athens ! I am gone : 

Think of me, sweet ! when alone. 

Though I fly to Istambol, 

Athens holds my heart and soul : 

Can I cease to love thee ? No ! 

Zoc nioii, sas agapo. 

Lord Byron. 

' jNIv lite, I love you. 
184 



CXXVI. Come, O Come ! ^ ^ ^ 

/^^OMP:, O come, my life's delight, 
^-^ Let me not in lan<4iior pine ! 
Love loves no delay ; thy sight. 

The more enjoyed, the more divine : 
O come, and take from me 
The pain of being deprived of thee ! 

Thou all sweetness dost enclose, 

Like a little world of bliss. 
Beauty guards thy looks : the rose 

In them pure and eternal is. 
Come, then, and make thy flight 
As swift to me, as heavenly Hght. 

Thomas Campion. 

CXXVI I. Love Inveterate^ ^ ,^ jt 

TT 7ERE I as base as is the lowly plain, 

' ^ And you, my love, as high as heaven above. 
Yet should the thoughts of me, your humble swain, 

Ascend to heaven in honour of my love. 
Were I as high as heaven above the plain, 

And you, my love, as humble and as low 
As are the deepest bottoms of the main, 

Wheresoe'cr you were, with you my love should 

Were you the earth, dear love, and I the skies. 
My love should shine on you like to the sun, 
185 



And look upon you with ten thousand eyes, 
Till heaven waxed blind, and till the world were 
done. 
Wheresoe'er I am, below, or else above you, 
Wheresoe'er you are, my heart shall truly love 
3^ou. 

J. Sylvester. 



CXXVIII. O Wert Thou in the Cauld 
Blast J^ J^ J^ J^ J^ ^ J^ 

r^ WERT thou in the cauld blast 
^^ On yonder lea, on yonder lea, 
My plaidie to the angry airt, 

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee : 
Or did misfortune's bitter storms 

Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, 
Thy bield should be my bosom. 

To share it a', to share it a'. 

Or were I in the wildest waste, 

Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, 
The desert were a paradise. 

If thou wert there, if thou wert there ; 
Or were I monarch o' the globe, 

Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign. 
The brightest jewel in my crown 

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. 

Robert Burns. 
1 86 



CXXIX. A Man's Requirements J- ^ 

T OVK me, Sweet, with all thou art, 
-■ — ' Feeling, thinking, seeing : 
Love me in the lightest part. 
Love me in full being. 

Love me with thine open youth 

In its frank surrender ; 
With the vowing of thy mouth. 

With its silence tender. 

Love me with thine azure eyes, 

Made for earnest granting ; 
Taking colour from the skies, — 

Can Heaven's truth be wanting? 

Love me with their lids, that fall 

Snow-like at first meeting ; 
Love me with thine heart, that all 

Neighbours then sec beating. 

Love me with thine hand stretched out 

Freely, open-minded : 
Love me with thy loitering foot, — 

Hearing one behind it. 

Love me with thy voice that turns 

Sudden faint above me ; 
Love me with thy blush that burns 

When I murmur. Love mc ! 
187 



Love me with thy thinking soul, 

Break it to love sighing ; 
Love me with thy thoughts that roll 

On through living — dying. 

Love me in thy gorgeous airs, 
When the world has crown'd thee,; 

Love me kneeling at thy prayers 
With the angels round thee. 

Love me pure, as musers do, 

Up the woodlands shady ; 
Love me gaily, fast and true, 

As a winsome lady. 

Through all hopes that keep us brave, 

Further off or nigher, 
Love me for the house and grave, 

And for something higher. 

Thus, if thou wilt love me. Dear, 

Woman's love no fable, 
/ will love thee — half a year. 

As a man is able. 

E. B. Brow)iing. 



CXXX. How Many Times ^ j!> J> 

T TOW many times do I love thee, dear? 
Tell me how many thoughts there be 

In the atmosphere 

Of a new-fall'n year, 
Whose white and sable hours appear 
The latest flake of Eternity : — 
So many times do I love thee, dear. 

How many times do I love again ? 
Tell me how many beads there are 

In a silver chain 

Of evening rain 
Unravelled from the tumbling main 
And threading the eye of a yellow star : — 
So many times do I love again. 

Thomas Lovell Beddocs. 

CXXX I. Life in a Love J* J> Jti J> 

T7 SCAPE me ? 
-'— ^ Never — 
Beloved ! 
While I am I, and you are you, 

So long as the world contains us both. 
Me the loving and you the loth, 
While the one eludes, must the other pursue. 
My life is a fault at last, I fear : 

It seems too much like a fate, indeed ! 
Though I do my best I shall scarce succeed. 
189 



Hill \vli;il if I fiiil of my purpose here ? 
II is l)u( (() ki-ep llic nerves ;i( sliuin, 

To (liy one's eyes and laii^li al a fall, 
And, baflled, ^et up (o lH<j;in attain,— 

So llie chace lakes up one's life, that's all. 
While, look but onee from youi" farthest hound 

Al nie so deep in the dust and dark, 
No sooner the old hope drops to j^round 

'I'han a new one, straight to the self-same mark 
1 shajie me — 
l^:ver 
Ixemoved ! 

/v*( »/'(•// nnm'/ilii!^. 



CXXXII. Ask Mc lU) More ^ ^ ^ 

A vSK me no more : Ihe moon may diaw the 
■^ ^ sea ; 

'IMie eloud may sloop from heaven and take the 

shape 
With fold to fold, of nu)uiilain oi" of cape ; 
ihil, () loo fond, when have 1 answer'd thee? 
Ask me no more. 

Ask nie no more : what answer should I ^ivc ? 
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye : 
Yel, () my fiieiul, 1 will not have thee die ! 
Ask me no more, lest 1 should bid thee live ; 
Ask mc IK) more. 
190 



Ask Hic no more : thy fate and mine are seal'd 
I strove against the stream, and all in vain : 
Let tlic ^reat river take me to the main : 
No more, dear love, for at a toucli I yield ; 
Ask me no more. 

Lord Tciiiivson. 



CXXXIII. A Red, Red Rose 



/^^ MY hive's like a red, red rose 
^-^> 'riiat's newly sprung in jime : 
O, my hive's like the melodie, 
That's sweetly played in tune. 



As fair art thou, my boimie lass, 

So dcvp in hive am I : 
And 1 will hive thee still, my dear, 

Till a' the seas gang dry. 

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear. 
And the rocks melt wi' the sun : 

I will luve thee still, my dear. 
While the sands o' life shall run. 

And fare thee weel, my only luve ! 

And fare thee weel a-whiie ! 
And I will come again, my luve, 
Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 

Robert Hums. 
191 



a J^^ 

XIII. 

Sono- I)ircls aiul Late Roses 

Little Lyrics oj Ilappy Jawc, 



193 



XIII 

■\T 7E had now, therefore, tlic satisfaction of 
* ^ seeing them fly into each other's arms in 
a transport. " After all my misfortunes," cried my 
son George, " to be thus rewarded ! vSure this is 
more than I could ever have presumed to hope 
for. To he possessed of all that's good, and after 
such an interval of pain ! My warmest wishes 
could never rise so high ! " 

Oliver Goldsmith " The Vicar of Wakcfwldr 




^^;ii 



CXXXIV. A Birthday J' J. J, J, 

A /TY heart is like a singing bird 
-*■ '^ J- Whose nest is in a watered shoot ; 
My heart is like an appletree 

Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit ; 
My heart is Hke a rainbow shell 
That paddles in a halcyon sea ; 
My heart is gladder than all these 
Because my love is come to me. 



Raise me a dais of silk and down ; 

Hang it with vair and purple dyes ; 
Carve it in doves, and pomegranates, 

And peacocks with a hundred eyes ; 
Work it in gold and silver grapes, 

In leaves, and silver fleur-de-lys ; 
Because the birthday of my life 

Is come, my love is come to me. 

Chrisiina G. Rossetti. 
The Garden 0} Love. '97 



CXXXV. The Time of Roses J. , 

T T was not in the Winter 
^ Our loving lot was cast ; 
It was the Time of Roses, — 
We pluck' d them as we pass'd ! 

*Twas twilight, and I bade you go, 

But still you held me fast ; 
It was the Time of Roses, — 

We pluck'd them as we pass'd ! 

What else could peer thy glowing cheeky 

That tears began to stud? 
And when I ask'd the like of Love, 

You snatch' d a damask bud, 

And oped it to the dainty core. 

Still glowing to the last, — 
It was the Time of Roses, — 

We pluck'd them as we pass'd ! 

Thomas Hood. 



CXXXVI. The Tryst J' ^ .j* J^ 

T LEANED out of window, I smelt the white 
-^ clover, 

Dark, dark was the garden, I saw^ not the gate ; 
"Now if there be footsteps, he comes, my one 
lover— 

198 



Hush, nightingale, hush ! O sweet nightingale, 
wait 

Till I listen and hear 
If a step draweth near, 
For my love he is late ! 

" The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and 
nearer, 
A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree. 
The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer : 
To what art thou listening, and what dost thou 
see ? 

Let the star-clusters glow, 
Let the sweet waters flow. 
And cross quickly to me. 

"You night moths that hover where honey brims 
over 
From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep ; 
You glow-worms, shine out, and the pathway 
discover 
To him that comes darkling along the rough 
steep. 

Ah, my sailor, make haste. 
For the time runs to waste. 
And my love lieth deep — 

" Too deep for swift telling ; and yet, my one 
lover, 
I've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to- 
night." 

199 



By the sycamore passed he, and through the 
white clover, 
Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took 
flight ; 

But I'll love him more, more 
Than e'er wife loved before, 
Be the days dark or bright. 

Jean Ingelow. 



CXXXVII. Love's Bird »^ .^ ^ ^ 

AT THEN thrushes rest the weary head, 
^ * And linnets lie in gold and green. 
When blackbirds on a downy bed 
Are silvered with a moony sheen. 

What voice awakes the emerald house ? 

What love incarnate flies on wings ? 
What passion shakes the trembling boughs ? 

It is the Bird of Love that sings. 

It is the Bird of Love that sings, 
Stabbing our silence like a sword, 

And Love himself that flies on wings, 
God and enchanter and no bird. 

Our moon of honey, our marriage moon, 
Rides in the heaven for our delight ; 

The silver world grows golden soon. 
Honey and gold spilled in the night. 
200 



The Bird of Love, the Bird of pain, 

He sings our marriage moon away ; ^ 

Fining the moon with golden rain, 
Betwixt the darkness and the day. 

Closer and closer, hold me close, 
For is it Love or Death he sings ? 

And is it Love or Death that goes 

Through the sweet night with rustling wings ? 
Katharine Tynan. 

CXXXVIII. Finland Love Song ^ J^ 

T SAW the moon rise clear 

^ O'er hills and vales of snow. 

Nor told my fleet reindeer 

The track I wish'd to go. 
Yet quick he bounded forth ; 

For well my reindeer knew 
I've but one path on earth — 

The path which leads to you. 

The gloom that winter cast 

How soon the heart forgets, 
When Summer brings at last. 

Her sun that never sets ! 
So dawn'd my love for you ; 

So, fix'd through joy and pain, 
Than summer sun more true, 

'Twill never set again. 

Thomas Moore. 

201 



CXXXIX. Were I a Cloudlet J> ^ 

^1 jTERE I a cloudlet, flying, flying, 

* * And you a floweret, dying, dying, 
My heart's blood on your leaves I'd pour, 
And vanish away for evermore. 

Were you a cloudlet, flying, flying. 
And I a floweret, dying, dying. 
My last sweet breath to you I'd pour, 
And wither away for evermore. 

For love will give and ask no guerdon, 
And love will bear poor sorrow's burden, 
And higher than all clouds may soar. 
Love's glory abides for evermore. 

May Byron. 



CXL. Only We J^ J^ J^ J^ 

T^REAM no more that grief and pain 
^-^ Could such hearts as ours enchain. 
Safe from loss and safe from gain. 
Free, as Love makes free. 

When false friends pass coldly by, 
Sigh, in earnest pity, sigh, 
Turning thine unclouded eye 
Up from them to me. 
202 



Hear not danger's trampling feet, 
Feel not sorrow's wintry sleet, 
Trust that life is just and meet. 
With mine arm round thee. 

Lip on lip, and eye to eye, 
Love to love, we hve, we die ; 
No more Thou, and no more I, 

• We, and only We! ^^^^/^^^^^^j,^,^ 



w 



CXLI. To Althea, from Prison J' - 
'HKN love, with unconfmed wings. 
Hovers within my gates, , 
And my divine Althea brings 

To whisper at the grates ; 
When I lie tangled in her hair, 
And fetter'd to her eye— ' 
Tiie birds that wanton in the air 
Know no such liberty. 

Stone walls do not a prison make, 

Nor iron bars a cage ; 
Minds innocent and quiet take . 

That for an hermitage. 
If I have freedom in my love, 

And in my soul am free,— 
Angels alone that soar above 

Enjoy such liberty. • ' 

Richa-rd Lovelace. 

203 



CXLII. The Monopolist J> ^ J' Jt> 

TF I were yonder wave, my dear, 
-■- And thou the isle it clasps around, 
I would not let a foot come near 
My land of bliss, my fairy ground ! 

If I were yonder conch of gold. 
And thou the pearl within it placed, 

I would not let an eye behold 
The sacred gem my arms embraced ! 

If I were yonder orange-tree, 
And thou the blossom blooming there 

I would not yield a breath of thee, 
To scent the most imploring air ! 

Thomas Moore.^ 

CXLII I. This Heart o' Mine ^ ^ 

ALL my heart lies open to the dew ; 
'^ ^ Who but you, my dearest, who but you ? , 
Fall, O Dew, more sweet than honey and wine, 
And fill with living joy this heart o' mine ! 

All my heart lies open to the wind. 
Who but you, that are now cold, now kind ? 
Come, O Wind, with fragrant touch divine. 
And fill with living breath this heart o' mine ! 

All my heart lies open to the sun : 
.Who but you, my dear, my only one ? 
204 



Shine, O Sun, I pray thee, ever shine, 
And fill with living light this heart o' mine ! 

Maurice Clare. 

CXLIV. The Summit J^ ^ ^ J^ 

/^UR breath shall intermix, our bosoms bound, 
And our veins beat together ; and our lips. 
With other eloquence than words, eclipse 
The soul that burns between them ; and the wells 
Which boil under our being's inmost cells. 
The fountains of our deepest life, shall be 
Confused in passion's golden purity. 
As mountain-springs under the morning sun. 
We shall become the same, we shall be one 
Spirit within two frames, oh, wherefore two? 
One passion in twin hearts, which grows and 

grew 
Till, like two meteors of expanding flame, 
Those spheres instinct with it become the same. 
Touch, mingle, are transfigured ; ever still 
Burning, yet ever inconsumable ; 
In one another's substance finding food. 
Light flames too pure and light and unimbued 
To nourish their bright lives with baser prey, 
Which point to heaven and cannot pass away: 
One hope within two wills, one will beneath 
Two overshadowing minds, one life, one death. 
One heaven, one hell, one immortality. 
And one annihilation ! 

P. B. Shelley. 
205 



CXLV. She is Mine j. ^ 

f~\ WHAT unhoped for sweet supply ! 
^-^ O what joys exceeding ! 
What an affecting charm feel I, 

From delight proceeding ! 
That which I long despaired to be, 
To her I am, and she to me. 

She that alone in cloudy grief 

Long to me appeared : 
She now alone with bright relief 

All those clouds hath cleared. 
Both are immortal and divine ! 
Since I am hers, and she is mine. 

TJiomas CcDiipion. 



CXLVI. I'd Mourn the Hopes ^ 

T'D mourn the hopes that leave me, 
•^ If thy smiles had left me too ; 
I'd weep when friends deceive me, 

If thou wert, like them, untrue. 
But while I've thee before me. 

With heart so warm and eyes so bright, 
No clouds can linger o'er me. 

That smile turns them all to light. 

O, 'tis not in fate to harm me. 
While fate leaves thy love to me ; 
206 



'Tis not in joy to charm me, 

Unless joy he shared with thee. 
One minute's dream about thee, 

Were worth a long, an endless year, 
Of waking bliss without thee. 

My own love, my only dear ! 

Thomas Moore. 

CXLVII. The Stewardship J^ Jt> J» 

THE silence of your ultimate thought is mine. 
Beyond the depth that any word can reach — 
The sacred stillness of the inmost shrine, 

That never yet was marred by mortal speech. 

And mine, the fires that on the altar burn. 
The altar of your spirit; where the dense 

Sweet odours deepen. Have you yet to learn 
Whose fingers flung that nard and frankincense ? 

And mine, the word that never yet was said, 
The mystic master-word, the key and clue 

To all you wisli or hope for, living or dead — 
The very meaning of the soul of you. 

These are all mine — and mine I swear they stand — 
Secret, unsoiled, in veils of love I fold them. 

Till God Himself shall claim them at my hand. 

And I shall yield them Him for Whom I hold 

them. 

M. C. Gillini^lon. 

207 



XIV. Rosemary for Remembrance 

Love in Adscftce 



209 



XIV 

Imogen. T DID not take my leave of him, but bad 
■^ Most pretty things to say . . . 
How I would think of him, at certain hours, 
Such thoughts, and such : or I could . . . 

have charged him, 
At the sixth hour of morn, at noon, at 

midnight, 
To encounter me with orisons, for then 
I am in heaven for him. 

Williain Shakespeare, " Cymbelvie." 



i^ hf^ 







CXLVIir. Alter Ego 



«^ eiT* t^ 



"\ 1 /"E must not part, as others do, 

* * With sighs and tears as we were two ; 
Though with these outward forms we part, 
We keep each other in our heart. 
What search hath found a being, where 
I am not, if that thou be there ? 

True love hath wings, and can as soon 
Survey the world, as sun and moon ; 
And everywhere our triumphs keep 
O'er absence, which makes others weep ; 
By which alone a power is given 
To live on earth, as they in heaven. 

Author Unknown {Early Seventeenth Century). 



CXLIX. The Lonely Road ^ ^ e^ 

T T ERE, ever since you went abroad, 
-'--'■ If there be change, no change I see ; 
I only walk our wonted road, 
The road is only walkt by me. 

Yes ; I forgot ; a change there is ; 

Was it of that you bade me tell ? 
I catch at times, at times I miss 

The sight, the tone, I know so well. 

Only two months since you stood here ! 

Two shortest months ! then tell me why 
Voices are harsher than they were. 

And tears are longer ere they dry. 

W. S. Landor. 

CL. In Three Days J> J> J> ^ Jk 

SO, I shall see her in three days 
And just one night, but nights are short. 
Then two long hours, and that is morn. 
See how I come, unchanged, unworn ! 
Feel, where my life broke off from thine, 
How fresh the splinters keep and fine, — 
Only a touch and we combine ! 

Too long, this time of year, the days ! 
But nights, at least the nights are short. 
As night shows where her one moon is, 

212 



A hand's-breadth of pure light and bliss, 
So life's night gives my lady birth 
And my eyes hold her ! What is worth 
The rest of heaven, the rest of earth ? 

O loaded curls, release your store 
Of warmth and scent, as once before 
The tingling hair did, lights and darks 
Outbreaking into fairy sparks, 
When under curl and curl I pried 
After the warmth and scent inside. 
Thro' lights and darks how manifold — 
The dark inspired, the light controlled ! 
As early Art embrowns the gold. 

What great fear, should one say, "Three days 

" That change the world might change as well 

" Your fortune ; and if joy dela3^s, 

" Be happy that no worse befell ! " 

What small fear, if another says, 

" Three days and one short night beside 

" May throw no shadow on your ways ; 

" But years must teem with change untried, 

" With chance not easily defied, 

"With an end somewhere undescried." 

No fear ! — or if a fear be born 

This minute, it dies out in scorn. 

Fear ? I shall see her in three days 

And one night, now the nights are short, 

Then just two hours, and that is morn. 

Robert Browning. 
213 



CLI. You and the Spring ^ J- ^ 

TTROM you have I been absent in the spring, 
■^ When proud-pied April, dress'd in all his trim, 
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing, 
That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him. 
Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell 
Of different flowers in odour and in hue 
Could make me any summer's story tell. 
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they 

grew ; 
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white. 
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose ; 
They were but sweet, but figures of delight, 
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those. 
Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away. 
As with your shadow I with these did play. 
William Shakespeare, 

CLI I. Wandering Willie J> J^ J^ ^ 

T T ERE awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
-■- ^ Here awa, there awa, hand awa hame ; 
Come to my bosom, my ae only dearie, 

And tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same. 

Loud tho' the Winter blew can Id at our parting, 
'Twas na the blast brought the tear in my e'e : 

Welcome now Simmer, and welcome my Willie, 
The Simmer to Nature, my Willie to me ! 
,214 



Rest, ye wild storms in the cave o' your slumbers — 
How your wild howling a lover alarms ! 

Wauken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows, 
And waft my .dear laddie ance mair to my arms. 

But O, if he's faithless, and minds na his Nannie, 
Flow still between us, thou wide-roaring main ! 

May I never see it, may I never trow it. 
But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain ! 

Robert Burns. 



CLIII. Memory Ji> J^ Jt- J' ^ 

O O shuts the marigold her leaves 
"^ At the departure of the sun ; 
So from the honeysuckle sheaves 

The bee goes when the day is done ; 
So sits the turtle when she is but one. 
And so all woe, as I since she is gone. 

To some few birds kind Nature hath 
Made all the summer as one day : 

Which once enjoyed, cold winter's wrath 
As night they sleeping pass away. 

Those happy creatures are, they know not yet 

The pain to be deprived, or to forget. 

I oft have heard men say there be 

Some that with confidence profess 
The helpful Art of Memory : 
215 



But could they teach forgetfuhiess, 
I'd learn, and try what further art could do 
To make me love her, and forget her too. 

Sad melancholy that persuades 

Men from themselves, to think they be 

Headless, or other body's shades. 

Hath long and bootless dwelt with me. 

For could I think she some idea were, 

I still might love, forget, and have her here. 

William Browne. 



CLIV. The Anxious Lover J^ Ji> J> 

T)E your words made, good Sir, of Indian ware, 

-■-^ That you allow me them by so small rate 

Or do you curted Spartans imitate ? 

Or do you mean my tender cars to spare. 

That to my questions you so total are ? 

When I demand of Phcenix-Stella's state, 

You say, forsooth, you left her well of late : 

God, think you that satisfies my care ? 

1 would know whether she did sit or walk ; 
How clothed ; how waited on ; sighed she, or 

smiled ; 
Whereof, — with whom, — liow often did she talk ; 
With what pastimes Time's journey she beguiled ; 
If her lips deigned to sweeten my poor name : 
Say all ; and all well said, still say the same. 

Sir Philip Sidney. 
216 



CLV. Love in Absence J> J^ J> J> 

/'^OME while the sweet Spring stays, O come! 
^-^ Come ere the nightingale be dumb ; 
While on her eggs his mate doth sit, 
And all the chestnut lamps are Ht. 

Come ere the baby leaves grow old. 
Crumpled and soft, these keep the fold 
Of tight enswathed buds, O come ! 
While yet the swallow is new to home. 

Come while our orchard like a bride, 
Blushes through white, and evening-tide 
Hangs all the pear-tree with such white 
Spun from the moon-rays for delight. 

Come while the yellow moon still shows, 
A moon of honey, a golden rose. 
And while all night in rapt content 
Our garden of Eden spills its scent. 

Come, ere the cuckoo's song is over. 
Come in the day of every lover. 
When every lover still wings for home ; 
Come, ere the nightingale be dumb. 

Katharine Tynan, 



J he Garden of Love. 217 



CLVI. Absence J' ^ J' ^ J- 

'IT riTH leaden foot Time creeps along 

* * While Delia is away ; 
With her, nor plaintive was the song, 
Nor tedious was the day. 

Ah ! envious power ! reverse my doom, 

Nor double thy career ; 
Strain every nerve, stretch every plume. 

And rest them when she's here. 

Richard J a go. 

CLVI I. Separation J^ Jt- ^ J' J> 

THERE is a mountain and a wood between us, 
Where the lone shepherd and late bird have 
seen us 
Morning and noon and eventide repass. 
Between us now the mountain and the wood 
Seem standing darker than last year they stood, 
And say we must not cross, alas ! alas ! 

W. S. Landor. 

CLVIII. If J. ^ ^ ^ J^ ^ 

T F I had but two little wings, 
-^ And were a little feathery bird. 

To you I'd fly, my dear ! 
But thoughts like these are idle things. 

And I stay here. 
218 



But in my sleep to you I fly ; 
I'm always with you in my sleep, 

The world is all one's own. 
But then one wakes, and where am I ? 

All, all alone. 

Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids ; 
So I love to wake ere break of day : 
For though my sleep be gone, 
Yet while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids, 
And still dreams on. 

S. T. Coleridge. 

CLIX. Remembrance J> J> ^ ^ 

"Xl /'HEN to the sessions of sweet silent thought 
^ ^ I summon up remembrance of things past, 
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought. 
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste ; 
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow. 
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night. 
And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe, 
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight : 
Then can I grieve at grievances forgone. 
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er 
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan. 
Which I new pay as if not paid before. 

But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, 
All losses are restored and sorrows end. 

William Shakespeare. 
219 



XV. Rue and Thyme and other Bitter 
Herbs 

Love Reproachful and Cynical 



221 



XV 



nPHE sun of love has set. We sit in the dark — 
^ I mean you and Corydon, good Madam, or I 
and AmaryUis — uncomfortably, with nothing more 
to say to each other. ... Ah ! daggers, ropes, and 
poisons, has it come to this ? 

W. M. Thackeray, " Adventures of Phiiip." 




CLX. The Pilgrimage Jt> Jt 

A S you came from the holy land 
"^^ Of Walsinghame, 
Met you not with my true love 
By the way as you came ? 

How shall I know your true love, 
That have met many one, 

As I went to the holy land, 

That have come, that have gone ? 

She is neither white nor brown. 

But as the heavens fair ; 
There is none hath a form so divine 

In the earth or the air. 



Such a one did I meet, good sir. 

Such an angelic face. 
Who like a queen, like a nymph, did appear 

By her gait, by her grace. 
223 



She hath left me here all alone, 

All alone, as unknown, 
Who sometimes did me leave with herself 

And me loved as her own. 

What's the cause that she leaves you alone. 

And a new way doth take, 
Who loved you once as her own, 

And her joy did you make ? 

I have loved her all my youth. 

But now old, as you see : 
Love likes not the falling fruit 

From the withered tree. 

Know that Love is a careless child. 

And forgets promise past. 
He is blind, he is deaf when he list, 

And in faith never fast. 

His desire is a dureless content, 

And a trustless joy ; 
He is won with a world of despair, 

And is lost with a toy. 

But true love is a durable fire. 

In the mind ever burning. 
Never sick, never old, never dead, 

From itself never turning. 

Sir Walter Raleigh. 

2£4 



CLXI. The Triumph J- J' J> J- 

^T THP^N thou must home to shades of under- 

* * ground, 
And there arrived, a new admired guest, 
The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round, 
White lope, blithe Helen, and the rest. 
To hear the stories of thy finished love 
From that smooth tongue whose music hell can 
move ; 

Then wilt thou speak of banqueting dehghts, 
Of masques and revels which sweet youth did 

make, 
Of tourneys and great challenges of knights, 
And all these triumphs for thy beauty's sake : 
When thou hast told these honours done to thee, 
Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder me. 

Thomas Campion. 

CLXI I. The Mournful Moon jt ^ ,^ 

TT TITH how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st 
^ ^ the skies ! 
How silently, and with how wan a face ! 
What, may it be that even in heavenly place 
That busy archer his sharp arrows tries ? 
Sure, if that long-with-Iove-acquainted eyes 
Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case, 
I read it in thy looks ; thy languisht grace, 
225 



To nic, that feci the hke, thy state descries. 
Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, 
Is constant love deeni'd there but want of wit ? 
Are beauties there as proud as here they be ? 
Do they above love to be lov'd, and yet 

Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess ? 

Do they call virtue there, ungratefulness ? 

Sir Philip Sidney. 



CLXIII. Change upon Change J^ ^ 

T^IVE months ago, the stream did How, 
-*- The lilies bloomed along the edge ; 
And we were Hngering to and fro. 
Where none will track thee in this snow. 
Along the stream, beside the hedge. 
Ah, sweet, be free to love and go ! 
For if I do not hear thy foot, 
The frozen river is as mute, — 
The flowers have died down to the root ; 
And why, since these be changed since May, 
Shouldst ilioii change less than tliey / 

And slow, slow, as the winter snow, 

The tears have drifted to mine eyes : 

And my poor cheeks, five months ago 

Set blushing at thy praises so. 

Put paleness on for a disguise. 

Ah, sweet, be free to praise and go t 
226 



For if my face is turned to pale. 
It was thine oath that first did fail, — 
It was thy love proved false and frail ! 
And why, since these be changed enow, 
Should / change less than thou ? 

E. B. Broivning. 

CLXIV. Kind are her Answers ^ ^ 

KIND are her answers, 
But her performance keeps no day ; 
Breaks time, as dancers 
From their own music when they stray. 
All her free favours and smooth words 

Wing my hopes in vain. 
O did ever voice so sweet but only feign ? 
Can true love yield such delay. 
Converting joy to pain ? 

Lost is our freedom, 

When we submit to women so : 

Why do we need them. 
When in their best they work our woe ? 

There is no wisdom 

Can alter ends, by Fate prefixed. 
O why is the good of man with evil mixed ? 

Never were days yet called two 

But one night went betwixt. 

Thomas Campion. 



127 



CLXV. Perjury Excused ^ J' J> ^^ 

T~\ID not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye, 
^^ 'Gainst whom the world cannot hold argu- 
ment, 
Persuade my heart to this false perjury ? 
Vows for thee broke deserve not punishment. 
A woman I forswore ; but I will prove. 
Thou being a goddess, I forswore not thee : 
My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love ; 
Thy grace being gained cures all disgrace in me. 
Vows are but breath, and breath a vapour is : 
Then thou, fair sun, which on my earth dost 

shine, 
Exhalest this vapour- vow ; in thee it is : 
If broken then, it is no fault of mine : 

If by me broke, what fool is not so wise 
To lose an oath to win a paradise ? 

William Shakespeare. 



CLXVI. The Eternal Feminine ^ ^ 

^O fix her — 'twere a task as vain 
To count the April drops of rain, 
To sow in Afric's barren soil. 
Or tempests hold within a toil. 



T' 



I know it, friend, she's light as air, 
False as the fowler's artful snare ; 
Inconstant as the passing wind, 
As winter's dreary frost unkind. 
228 



She's such a miser too in love, 
Its joys she'll neither share nor prove ; 
Though hundreds of gallants await 
From her victorious eyes their fate. 

Blushing at such inglorious reign, 
I sometimes strive to break her chain ; 
My reason summon to my aid, 
Rosolve no more to be betrayed. 

Ah ! friend, 'tis but a short-lived trance. 
Dispell' d by one enchanting glance ; 
She need but look, and I confess 
Those looks completely curse or bless. 

So soft, so elegant, so fair, 

Sure something more than human's there ; 

I must submit, for strife is vain, 

'Twas destiny that forged the chain. 

Tobias Smollett. 



CLXVII. A Dirge J> J^ J' ^ J- 

T3 ING out your bells, let mourning shews be 
-■-^ spread ; 
For Love is dead : 

All Love is dead, infected 
With plague of deep disdain : 

Worth, as nought worth, rejected. 
And Faith fair scorn doth gain. 
229 



From so ungrateful fancy, 
From such a female frenzy, 
From them that use men thus, 
Good Lord, deliver us ! 

Weep, neighbours, weep ; do you not hear it \ said 
That Love is dead ? 

His death-bed, peacock's folly ; 
His winding-sheet is shame ; 

His will, false-seeming wholly ; 
His sole executor, blame. 

From so ungrateful fancy. 

From such a female frenzy, 

From them that use men thus, 

Good Lord, deliver us ! 

Let dirge be sung, and trentals rightly]]read, 
For Love is dead ; 

Sir Wrong his tomb ordaineth 
His mistress' marble heart ; 

Which epitaph containeth, 
" Her eyes were once his dart." 

From so ungrateful fanc}^. 

From such a female frenzy. 

From them that use men thus. 

Good Lord, deliver us ! 

Alas ! I lie : rage hath this error bred ; 
Love is not dead ; 

Love is not dead, but sleepeth 
230 



In her unmatched mind, 

Where she his counsel keepeth, 
Till due deserts she iind. 

Therefore from so vile fancy, 

To call such wit a frenzy, 

Who Love can temper thus. 

Good Lord, deliver us ! 

Sir Philip Sidney. 

CLXVIII. Where did you Borrow that 
Last Sigh J> ,^ J' ^ ^ ^^ 

\ 1 rHERE did -you borrow that last sigh, 
^ * And that relenting groan ? 
For those that sigh, and not for love, 

Usurp what's not their own. 
Love's arrows sooner armour pierce 

Than your soft snowy skin ; 
Your eyes can only teach us love. 
But cannot take it in. 

Sir William Berkeley. 

CLXIX. Love Disposed of ^ ^ ^ 

T T ERE goes Love ! Now cut him clear, 
^ ^ A weight about his neck : 
If he linger longer here. 

Our ship will be a wreck. 
Overboard ! Overboard ! 

Down let him go ! 

23 T 



Ill the deep he may sleep, 
Where the corals grow. 

He said he'd woo the gentle breeze, 

A bright tear in her eye : 
But she was false and hard to please, 

Or he has told a lie. 
Overboard ! Overboard ! 

Down in the sea 
He may find a truer mind 

Where the mermaids be. 

He sang us many a merry song 

While the breeze was kind : 
But he has been lamenting long 

The falseness of the wind. 
Overboard ! overboard ! 

Under the wave 
Let him sing where smooth shells ring 

In the ocean's cave ! 

He may struggle ; he may weep ; 

We'll be stern and cold ; 
His grief will find, within the deep, 

More tears than can be told. 
He has gone overboard ! 

We will float on ; 
We shall find a truer wind 

Now that he is gone. 

T. L. Beddoes. 
232 



CLXX. To Cloe J- J' J. J> J. 

Imitated from Martial 

T COULD resign that eye of blue, 
■*■ Howe'er it burn, howe'er it thrill me : 
And though your lip be rich with dew, 
To lose it, Cloe, scarce would kill me. 

That snowy neck I ne'er should miss, 
However warm I've twined about it ; 

And though your bosom beat with bliss, 
I think my soul could live without it. 

In short, I've learned so v^^ell to fast, 

That, sooth, my love, I know not whether 

I might not bring myself at last, 
To — do without you altogether ! 

Thomas Moore. 

CLXXI. I v^as in Love J> J> J> J^ 

/^NCE did my thoughts both ebb and flow, 
^-^ As passion did them move. 
Once did I hope, straight fear again, — 
And then I was in love. 

Once did I waking spend the night, 
And tell how many minutes move. 

Once did I wishing waste the day, — 
And then I was in love. 
233 



Once, by my carving true-love' s-knot, 

The weeping trees did prove 
That wounds and tears were both our lot, — 

And then I was in love. 

Once did I breathe another's breath. 

And in my mistress move, 
Once was I not mine own at all, — 

And then I was in love. 

Once wore I bracelets made of hair, 

And collars did approve. 
Once wore my clothes made out of wax, — 

And then I was in love. 

Once did I sonnet to my saint, 

My soul in numbers move, 
Once did I tell a thousand lies, — 

And then I was in love. 

Once in my ear did dangling hang 

A Httle turtle-dove. 
Once, in a word, I was a fool, — 

And then I was in love. 

Robert Jones. 



234 



CLXXII. What Care I? Ji Jk Jt> 

OHALL I, wasting in despair, 
^^ Die because a woman's fair ? 
Or my cheeks make pale with care, 
'Cause another's rosy are ? 
Be she fairer than the day, 
Or the flowery meads in May, 
If she be not so to me. 
What care I how fair she be ? 



Shall my foolish heart be pined 
'Cause I see a woman kind ; 
Or a well-disposed nature 
Joined with a lovely feature ? 
Be she meeker, kinder, than 
Turtle-dove or pelican, 

If she be not so to me. 

What care I how kind she be ? 



Shall a woman's virtues move 
Me to perish for her love ? 
Or her merit's value known. 
Make me quite forget mine own ? 
Be she with that goodness blest 
Which may gain her name of Best ; 
If she seem not such to me. 
What care I how good she be ? 
235 



'Cause her fortune seems too high, 
Shall I play the fool and die ? 
Tliose that bear a noble mind, 
Where they want, of riches find, 
Think what with them they would do 
Who without them dare to woo : 
And unless that mind I see, 
What care I tho' great she be ? 

Great or good, or kind or fair, 
will ne'er the more despair ; 
If she love me, this believe, 
I will die ere she shall grieve ; 
If she slight me when I woo, 
I can scorn and let her go ; 
For if she be not for me, 
What care I for whom she be ? 

George WifJiei. 

CLXXIII. When I Loved You ^ . 

TT fHEN I loved you, I can't but allow 
* * I had many an exquisite minute ; 
But the scorn that I feel for you now 
Hath even more luxury in it ! 

Thus, whether we're on or we've off, 
Some witchery seems to await you ; 
To love you is pleasant enough, 
But oh ! 'tis delicious to hate you ! 

Thomas Moore. 
236 



CLXXIV. The Prediction J' J- J- 

V^ILLY boy, 'tis full moon yet, thy night as day 

^^ shines clearly ; 

Had thy youth but wit to fear, thou couldst not 

love so dearly. 
Shortly wilt thou mourn, when all thy pleasures 

are bereaved ; 
Little knows he how to love that never was 

deceived. 



This is thy first maiden flame, that triumphs yet 

unstained ; 
All is artless now you speak, not one word, yet, 

is feigned ; 
All is heaven tliat you behold, and all your thoughts 

are blessed ; 
But no spring can want his fall ; each Troilus 

hath his Cressid ! 



Thy well-ordered locks ere long shall rudely hang 

neglected ; 
And thy lively pleasant cheer read grief on earth 

dejected. 
Much then wilt thou blame thy Saint, that made 

thy heart so holy. 
And with sighs confess, in love, that too much 

faith is folly. 

237 



Yet be Just and constant still ! Love may beget 

a wonder ; 
Not unlike a summer's frost, or winter's fatal 

thunder. 
He that holds his sweetheart true, unto his day 

of dying, 
Lives, of all that ever breathed, most worthy the 

envying. 

Tlioiiias Campion. 



238 



XVI. Popples 

Dt'eams 



239 



XVI 



OURELY this is it we call happiness, and this 
*^ do I enjoy; with him I am happy in a dream, 
and as content to enjoy a happiness in a fancy, as 
others in a more apparent truth and reality. There 
is surely a nearer apprehension of anything that 
delights us, in our dreams than in our waked senses. 
Without this I were unhappy; for my awaked judg- 
ment discontents me, ever whispering unto me that 
I am from my friend ; but my friendly dreams in 
the night requite me, and make me think I am 
within his arms. I thank God for my happy 
dreams. 

Sir TJiomas Broivnc, " Rcligio Medici." 



ij' ^<? 



vr— ^ 




CLXXV. Lons[in< 



J- 



COME to me in my dreams, and then 
By day I shall be well again. 
For then the night will more than pay 
The hopeless longing of the day. 

Come, as thou cam'st a thousand times, 
A messenger from radiant climes. 
And smile on thy new world, and be 
As kind to others as to me. 

Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth, 
Come now, and let me dream it truth. 
And part my hair, and kiss my brow, 
And say — My love ! why sufferest thou ? 



Come to me in my dreams, and then 
By day I shall be well again. 
For then the night will more than pay 
The hopeless longing of the day. 

Matthew Arnold. 

The Garden of Love. 24I L 



CLXXVI. The House of Love J, j, 

T N my dreams a-journeying far, 
-*- With moonless skies above, 
Mcthought I saw a single star 

Above the House of Love : 
Briars and thorns about the door. 

And rust upon the key, 
And long-dead roses on the floor, 

That rustled under me. 



Darkness deep in every room, 

I felt a touch divine — 
I clasped a hand in the haunted gloom, — 

O Heart of hearts ! 'twas thine. 
Close, ah close, our arms enwound, 

And fast our kisses fell, 
For we the House of Love had found, 

Where all his dreamers dwell. 



There was no chain the world can weld 

Could bind us twain apart : 
Thy honey lips, so long withheld, 

Poured life into my heart . . . 
Then I woke — forlorn, alone, 

With ruthless morn above ; 
Only in dreams shall ways unknown 

Lead to the House of Love. 

Marsion ^Moore. 
242 



CLXXVII. The Traveller's Dreams ^ 

OOME sa}', when nights are dry and clear, 
"^ And the death-dews sleep on the morass, 
Sweet whispers are heard by the traveller, 
Which make night day : 
And a silver shape like his early love doth pass 
Upborne by her wild and glittering hair. 
And when he awakes on the fragrant grass, 
He finds night day. 

P. B. Shelley. 



CLXXVII I. The Turret ^ ^ ^ ^ 

HTHERE is a little turret roofed with gold, 
-*- A corner of my castle in the air ; 
And often, when the wintry world's a-cold, 

I climb and taste eternal summer there : 
For roses thro' the lattice laugh and lean, 

And all the ceiling is of tender blue — 
The walls are leaves, the floor is mossy-green — 

And in the happy twilight, there are you ! 



There is a little turret veiled in mist. 

And tapestried with dreams of days gone by. 
Where in the silence we have clasped and kissed, 

And none might blame, nor hinder, nor deny. 
243 



How did you find the hidden postern gate, 

That lets you through upon the secret stair ? 

For never yet have I had need to wait — 

Before the door is opened, you are there. 

There is a httle turret lapt in fire, 

And wrapt about with red of Uving flame, 
Where, at the pinnacle of heart's desire, 

Breathless we two have named each other's 
name. 
And [then it crashes, crumbling — then the dust 

And smoke are dim above its ruins bare . . 
I build it up again — I can — I must ! — 

Come back unto our castle in the air ! 

May By roil. 



CLXXIX. Dream-Love J^ J^ J^ Jt, 

"XT'OUNG Love lies sleeping 
•^ In May-time of the year, 
Among the lilies. 

Lapped in the tender light : 
White lambs come grazing, 

White doves come building there ; 
And round about him 
The May-bushes are white. 
244 



Soft moss the pillow 

For oh, a softer cheek ; 
Broad leaves cast shadow 

Upon the heavy eyes : 
There winds and waters 

Grow lulled and scarcely speak 
There twilight lingers 

The longest in the skies. 



Young Love lies dreaming ; 

But who shall tell the dream ? 
A perfect sunlight 

On rustling forest tips ; 
Or perfect moonlight 

Upon a rippling stream ; 
Or perfect silence, 

Or song of cherished lips. 



Burn odours round him 

To fill the drowsy air ; 
Weave silent dances 

Around him to and fro ; 
For oh, in waking 

The sights are not so fair, 
And song and silence 

Are not like these below. 
245 



Young Love lies dreaming 

Till summer days are gone, 
Dreaming and drowsing 

Away to perfect sleep : 
He sees the beauty 

Sun hath not looked upon, 
And tastes the fountain 

Unutterably deep. 



Him perfect music 

Doth hush unto his rest, 
And through the pauses 

The perfect silence calms : 
Oh, poor the voices 

Of earth from east to west. 
And poor earth's stillness 

Between her stately palms I 



Young Love lies drowsing 

Away to poppied death ; 
Cool shadows deepen 

Across the sleeping face : 
So fails the summer 

With warm delicious breath 
And what hath autumn 

To give us in its place ? 
246 



Draw close the curtain 

Of branched ever^j^reen ; 
Change cannot touch them 

With fading fingers sere : 
Here the first violets 

Perhaps will bud unseen, 
And a dove, maybe, 

Return to nestle here. 

Christina Rossetti. 



CLXXX. The One Dream J> jt , 

TT often comes into my head, 

^ That we may dream when we are dead, 

But I am far from sure we do, 
O that it were so ! then my rest 
Would be indeed among the blest ; 

I should for ever dream of you. 

Walter Savage Landor. 



CLXXXI. Reincarnation ^ Jf J' J> 

T N lonely ways of dim forgotten lands, 

^ Ah, do you not recall how once we went ? 

Did we not gaze, and hold each other's hands. 

In utter ecstasy of sheer content ? 
As for what we said — we said but nothing : 
The naked truth was ours, that needs no clothing. 
247 



strange flowers were near us — nameless to me 
now — 
And strange old cities — were they quick or 
dead ? — 
We met — we two — the when or why or how 

Matters no more. That golden hour is fled, 
But ineffaceable its glory lingers, 
As melodies survive their primal singers. 

And you — the moment eyes encountered e3^es, 
Yours were alight with memories and with 
dreams. 

You are mine, all mine : you know it. O, be wise. 
Ere over all our Past our Present streams, 

And snaps our secret chains of joy and wonder, 

And whelms, and whirls us, impotent, asunder. 

Listen ... In visions I will come to-night, 
And seek with you those old mysterious lands, 

And we shall see in the grey uncertain light, — 
Do you remember ? — where the temple stands. 

The desolate temple of some faith unknown, 

The sunset fading on its solemn stone. 

And we will never leave those lands again, 

But all that should have been for us, shall be : 
Reality foregone, dreams shall remain. 

And sweet oblivion cover you and me. 
Dare all, renounce all — come ! ... I do not doubt 

you — 
I who have waited centuries without you. 

Maurice Clare. 
248 



CLXXXII. In a Dream ^ ^ ^ '^ 

IN a dream, in the dusk, in the hush of night, 
When in sombre skies were no stars in sight, 
When the odorous garden shades were fill'd 
With subtle scents from the rose distill'd, 
The rose that Hfted its orbs of white 
Round my lattice to left and right,— 
A wonder came from the cloudy height. 
The fairest vision that hope might build 
In a dream. 

Too short was its stay, too swift its flight. 
But I cUng to it still in the truth's despite, 
With its splendid lie is my soul yet thrill'd. 
For it might have been so, if the fates had 
will'd, — 
You clasp'd me, you kiss'd me, O heart's delight !— 
In a dream. 

U, C. Gillingion. 



CLXXXIII. Echo ^ J' J' ^ '^ 

COME to me in the silence of the night ; 
Come in the speaking silence of a dream ; 
Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright 
As sunlight on a stream ; 
Come back in tears ; 
O memory, hope, love of finished years. 
249 



O dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter-sweet, 

Whose wakening should have been in Paradise, 
Where souls brimful of love abide and meet ; 
Where thirsting longing eyes 
Watch the slow door 
That, opening, letting in, lets out no more. 

Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live 
My very life again though cold in death : 
Come back to me in dreams, that I may give 
Pulse for pulse, breath for breath : 
Speak low, lean low. 
As long ago, my love, how long ago ? 

Christina Rossetti. 



2^0 



XVII. Rain and Wind 

The Doubts and Despairs of Love 



251 



XVII 

T T puzzled mc to find him in so much pain as he 
^ appeared to be, when he had it in his power so 
easily to remove the cause by declaring an honour- 
able passion. But whatever uneasiness he seemed 
to endure, it could easily be perceived that Olivia's 
anguish was still greater. . . . Her vivacity quite 
forsook her : and every opportunity of solitude was 
sought, and spent in tears. 

Oliver Goldsmiih, " The Vicar of Wakefield." 




CLXXXIV. The Lover Complai'neth of 
the Unkindness of His Love ^ J- 

MY lute, awake ! perform the last 
Labour that thou and I shall waste ; 
And end that I have now begun : 
And when this song is sung and past, 
My lute ! be still, for I have done. 

As to be heard where ear is none ; 
As lead to grave in marble stone, 
My song may pierce her heart as soon ; 
Should we then sing, or sigh, or moan ? 
No, no, my lute ! for I have done. 

The rock doth not so cruelly, 
Repulse the waves continually, 
As she my suit and affection : 
So that I am past remedy ; 
Whereby my lute and I have done, 
253 



Proud of the spoil that thou hast got 
Of simple hearts through Love's shot, 
By whom, unkind, thou hast them won ; 
Think not he hath his bow forgot, 
Although my lute and I have done. 

Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain. 
That makest but game of earnest pain ; 
Trovk' not alone under the sun 
Unquit to cause thy lovers plain. 
Although my lute and I have done. 

May chance thee lie withered and old 
In winter nights, that are so cold. 
Plaining in vain unto the moon ; 
Thy wishes then dare not to be told : 
Care then who list, for I have done. 

And then may chance thee to repent 
The time that thou hast lost and spent, 
To cause thy lovers sigh and swoon: 
Then shalt thou know beauty but lent, 
And wish and want, as I have done. 

Now cease, my lute ! this is the last 
Labour that thou and I shall waste ; 
And ended is that we begun : 
Now is thy song both sung and past ; 
My lute, be still, for I have done. 

Sir Thomas Wyalf. 
254 



CLXXXV. When the Lamp is Shattered 

■\1 THEN the lamp is shattered, 

^ * The light in the dust lies dead — 
When the cloud is scattered, 

The rainbow's glory is shed. 
When the lute is broken. 

Sweet tones are remembered not ; 
When the lips have spoken. 

Loved accents are soon forgot. 



As music and splendour 

Survive not the lamp and the lute, 
The heart's echoes render 

No song when the spirit is mute : — 
No song but sad dirges, 

Like the wind through a ruined cell, 
Or the mournful surges 

That ring the dead seamen's knell. 



When hearts have once mingled, 

Love first leaves the well-built nest ; 
The weak one is singled 

To endure what it once possest. 
O Love ! who bewailest 

The frailty of all things here, 
Why choose you the frailest 

For your cradle, your home, and your bier ? 
255 



Its passions will rock thee 

As the storms rock the ravens on high ; 
Bright reason will mock thee, 

Like the sun from a wintry sky. 
From thy nest every rafter 

Will rot, and thine eagle home 
Leave thee naked to laughter. 

When leaves fall and cold winds come. 

P. B. Shelley. 



CLXXXVI. Lewti ; or, The Circassian 
Love-Chaunt ,^ «^ .^ «^ «^ 

A T midnight by the stream I roved, 
^^^ To forget the form I loved. 
Image of Lewti ! from my mind 
Depart ; for Lewti is not kind. 

The Moon was high, the moonlight gleam 

And the shadow of a star 
Heaved upon Tamaha's stream ; 

But the rock shone brighter far, 
The rock half-sheltered from my view 
By pendant boughs of tressy yew — 
So shines my Lewti's forehead fair, 
Gleaming through her sable hair. 
Image of Lewti ! from my mind 
Depart ; for Lewti is not kind. 
256 



I saw a cloud of palest hue, 

Onward to the moon it passed ; 
Still brighter and more bright it grew, 
With floating colours not a few, 

Till it reached the moon at last: 
Then the cloud was wholly bright, 
With a rich and amber light ! 
And so with many a hope I seek. 

And with such joy I find my Lewti ; 
And even so my pale wan cheek 

Drinks in as deep a flush of beauty ! 
Nay, treacherous image ! leave my mind, 
If Lewti never will be kind. 



The little cloud — it floats away. 
Away it goes ; away so soon ? 

Alas ! it has no power to stay : 

Its hues are dim, its hues are grey- 
Away it passes from the moon ! 

How mournfully it seems to fly. 
Ever fading more and more, 

To joyless regions of the sky — 
And now 'tis whiter than before 1 

As white as my poor cheek will be, 
When, Lewti ! on my couch I lie, 

A dying man for love of thee. 

Nay, treacherous image ! leave my mind- 

And yet, thou didst not look unkind. 
257 



I saw a vapour in the sky, 

Thin, and white, and very high ; 
I ne'er beheld so thin a cloud : 

Perhaps the breezes that can fly 

Now below and now above, 
Have snatched aloft the lawny shroud 

Of Lady fair — that died for love. 
For maids, as well as youths, have perished 
From fruitless love too fondly cherished. 
Nay, treacherous image ! leave my mind — 
For Lewti never will be kind. 

Hush ! my heedless feet from under 
Slip the crumbling banks for ever : 

Like echoes to a distant thunder. 
They plunge into the gentle river. 

The river-swans have heard my tread, 

And startle from their reedy bed. 

O beauteous birds ! methinks ye measure 
Your movements to some heavenly tune ! 

beauteous birds ! 'tis such a pleasure 
To see you move beneath the moon, 

1 would it were your true delight 
To sleep by day and wake all night. 

I know the place where Lewti lies, 
When silent night has closed her eyes : 

It is a breezy jasmine-bower, 
The nightingale sings o'er her head : 

Voice of the night ! had I the power 
258 



That leafy labyrinth to thread, 

And creep like thee with soundless tread 

I then might view her bosom white 

Heaving lovely to my sight, 

As these two swans together heave 

On the gentle swelling wave. 

Oh ! that she saw me in a dream, 

And dreamt that I had died for care ; 

All pale and wasted I would seem. 
Yet fair withal, as spirits are ! 
I'll die indeed, if I might see 

Her bosom heave, and heave for me ! 

Soothe, gentle image ! soothe my mind ! 

To-morrow Levvti may be kind. 

S. Taylor Coleridge. 



CLXXXVII. Edward Gray Jt j^ ^ 

C* WEET Emma Moreland of yonder town 
^^ Met me walking in yonder way, 
"And have you lost your heart?" she said; 
"And are you married yet, Edward Gray?" 

Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me : 

Bitterly weeping I turn'd away : 
" Sweet Emma Moreland, love no more 

Can touch the heart of Edward Gray. 
259 



'' Ellen Adair she loved me well, 

Against her father's and mother's will : 

To-day I sat for an hour and wept, 
By Ellen's grave, on the windy hill, 

" Shy she was, and I thought her cold ; 

Thought her proud, and fled over the sea 
Filled I was with folly and spite, 

When Ellen Adair was dying for me. 

" Cruel, cruel the words I said ! 

Cruelly came they back to-da}^ : 
' You're too slight and fickle,' I said, 

'To trouble the heart of Edward Gray.' 

"There I put my face in the grass — 
Whisper'd, ' Listen to my despair : 

I repent me of all I did : 
Speak a little, Ellen Adair ! ' 

'' Then I took a pencil, and wrote 

On the mossy stone, as I lay, 
^ Here lies the body of Ellen Adair ; 

And here the heart of Edward Gray ! ' 

*' Love may come, and love may go, 
And fly, like a bird, from tree to tree : 

But I will love no more, no more. 
Till Ellen Adair come back to me. 

^'Bitterly wept I over the stone: 
Bitterly weeping I turn'd away: 
260 



There lies the body of Ellen Adair ! 
And there the heart of Edward Gray ! " 

Lord Tennyson. 

CLXXXVIII. Two in the Campagna ^ 



T WONDER do you feel to-day 

-*- As I have felt since, hand in hand, 

We sat down on the grass, to stray 
In spirit better through the land, 

This morn of Rome and May ? 

II. 

For me, I touched a thought, I know. 

Has tantalised me many times, 
(Like turns of thread the spiders throw 

Mocking across our path) for rhymes 
To catch at and let go. 

III. 

Help me to hold it ! first it left 
The yellowing fennel, run to seed 

There, branching from the brickwork's cleft, 
Some old tomb's ruin : yonder weed 

Took up the floating weft. 

IV. 

WHiere one small orange cup amassed 

Five beetles, — blind and green they grope 
261 



Among the honey-meal : and last, 
Everywhere on the grassy slope 
I traced it. Hold it fast ! 

V, 

The champaign with its endless fleece 

Of feathery grasses everywhere ! 
Silence and passion, joy and peace, 

An everlasting wash of air — 
Rome's ghost since her decease. 

VI, 

Such life there, through such lengths of hours, 

Such miracles performed in play, 
Such primal naked forms of flowers, 

Such letting nature have her way 
While heaven looks from its towers ! 

VII. 

How say you ? Let us, O my dove. 

Let us be unashamed of soul. 
As earth lies bare to heaven above ! 

How is it under our control 
To love or not to love ? 

VIII. 

I would that you were all to me. 

You that are just so much, no more. 
Nor yours nor mine, nor slave nor free ! 
262 



Where does the fault lie ? What the core 
O' the wound; since wound must be ? 

IX. 

I would I could adopt your will, 

See with your eyes, and set my heart 

Beating by yours, and drink my fill 

At your soul's springs, — your part my part 

In Hfe, for good and ill. 

X. 

No. I yearn upward, touch you close. 

Then stand away. I kiss your cheek. 
Catch your soul's warmth, — I pluck the rose 
And love it more than tongue can speak- 
Then the good minute goes. 

XI. 

Already how am I so far 

Out of that minute ? Must I go 

Still like the thistle-ball, no bar, 

Onward, whenever light winds blow. 

Fixed by no friendly star ? 



Just when I seemed about to learn ! 

Where is the thread now ? Off again ! 
The old trick ! Only I discern — 

Infinite passion, and the pain 
Of finite hearts that yearn. 

Robert Browning. 
263 



CLXXXIX. Sometimes with One I Love 

OOMETIMES with one I love I fill myself with 
*^ rage for fear I effuse unreturn'd love, 
But now I think there is no unreturn'd love, the 

pay is certain one way or another ; 
(I loved a certain person ardently and my love 

was not returned. 
Yet out of that I have written these songs.) 

IValt Whitman. 



26 \ 



XVIII. Ripened Fruits 

The Happy Husbcwd 



265 



XVIII 

'1 1 THAT we too often doubt, is the continuance 
^ ^ of such a relation throughout the whole of 
human life. We think it right in the lover and 
mistress, not in the husband and wife. . . . Do 
you not feel that marriage — when it is marriage at 
all — is only the seal which marks the vowed transi- 
tion of temporary into untiring service, and of fitful 
into eternal love ? 

^fohn Riiskin, " Sesame and Lilies." 




CXC. The xAnniversary ,^ ,^ ^ 



A LL kings and all their favourites — 
^ ^ All glory of honours, beauties and wits, — 
(The Sun itself, which times them as they pass, 
Is elder by a year now than it was 
When thou and I first one another saw) : — 

All other things to their destruction draw ; 
Only our love hath no decay : 
This no to-morrow hath nor yesterday ; 
Running, it never runs from us away, 
But truly keeps his first, last, everlasting day. 

John Donne. 

The Garden of Love. 267 



CXCI. The Happy Husband e^ «^ e^ 

/^~\FT, oft, mcthinks, the while with Thee 
^-^ I breathe, as from the heart, thy dear 

And dedicated name, I hear 
A promise and a mystery, 

A pledge of more than passing Hfe, 
Yea, in that very name of Wife ! 

A pulse of love that ne'er can sleep ! 

A feeling that upbraids the heart 

With happiness beyond desert. 
That gladness half requests to weep ! 

Nor bless I not the keener sense 

And unalarming turbulence. 

Of transient joys, that ask no sting 
From jealous fears, or coy denying ; 
But born beneath Love's brooding wing, 

And into tenderness soon dying, 

Wheel out their giddy moment, then 
Resign the soul to love again ; — 

A more precipitated vein 

Of notes that eddy in the flow 
Of smoothest song, they come, they go, 
And leave their sweeter understrain 
Its own sweet self — a love of Thee 
That seems, yet cannot greater be ! 

S. T. Coleridge. 
268 



CXCII. The Exchange ^ J- ^ ^ 
Y true love hath my heart, and I have his, 



iM 



M 

^^ ^ By just exchange one to the other given. 
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss, 
There never was a better bargain driven : 
My true love hath my heart, and I have his. 

His heart in mc, keeps him and me in one, 
My heart in him, his thought and senses guide > 
He loves my heart, for once it was his own. 
I cherish his, because in me it bides ; 
My true love hath my heart, and I have his. 

Sir Philip Sidney. 

CXCII I. Love and Nature ^ J' 

WHEN long upon the scales of fate 
The issue of my passion hung. 
And on your eyes I laid in wait. 

And on your brow, and on your tongue. 

High-frowning Nature pleased me most, 
Strange pleasure was_ it to discern 

Sharp rocks and mountains peaked with frost, 
Through gorges thick with fir and fern. 

The flowerlcss walk, the vapoury shrouds, 
Could comfort me ; though best of all, 

I loved the daughter of the clouds,— 
The wild, capricious waterfall, — 
260 



But now that you and I repose 
On one affection's certain store, 

Serener charms take place of those, — 
Plenty and Peace, and little more. 

The hill that tends its mother-breast, 
To patient flocks and gentle kine, — 

The vale that spreads its royal vest 
Of golden corn and purple vine ; 

The streams that bubble out their mirth 
In humble nooks, or calmly flow, 

The crystal life-blood of our earth, 
Are now the dearest sights I know. 



CXCIV. You J> J. J. J> J- Ji> 

C^ OD be thanked, the meanest of his creatures 
^ Boasts two soul-sides, one to face the world 
with, 
One to show a woman when he loves her. 

This I say of me, but think of you, Love ! 

This to you — yourself, my moon of poets ! 

Ah, but that's the world's side, there's the wonder, 

Thus they see you, praise you, think they know 

you ! 
There, in turn I stand with them and praise you — 
Out of my own self, I dare to phrase it. 
270 



But the best is when I ghde from out them, 
Cross a step or two of dubious twihght, 
Come out on the other i side, the novel 
Silent silver lights and darks undreamed of 
Where I hush and bless myself with silence. 

Oh, their Raphael of the dear Madonnas, 
Oh, their Dante of the dread Inferno, 
Wrote one song— and in my brain I sing it, 
Drew one angel— borne, see, on my bosom ! 

Robert Broivning. 

CXCV. A Song of Content .^ ^ ^ 

nPHE eagle nestles near the sun ; 

^ The dove's low nest for me ! — 
The eagle s on the crag ; sweet one, 

The dove's in our green tree ! 
For hearts that beat like thine and mine 

Heaven blesses humble earth ; — 
The angels of our Heaven shall shine 
The angels of our Hearth ! 

John James Pi alt. 

CXCVI. To His Wife on the Sixteenth 
Anniversary of Her Wedding-day, 
with a Ring ^ J' J' J^ Ji 

"T~^HEE, Mary, with this ring I wed," 
-*- So sixteen years ago I said — 
271 



Behold another ring ! " for what ? " 

To wed thee o'er again — why not ? 
With the first ring I married youth, 

Grace, beauty, innocence, and truth ; 

Taste long admired, sense long rever'd. 

And all my Molly then appear'd. 
If she by merit since disclosed, 

Prove twice the woman I supposed, 

I plead that double merit now, 

To justify a double vow. 

Here then to-day, with faith as sure, 

With ardour as intense and pure. 

As when amidst the rites divine 

I took thy troth, and plighted mine. 

To thee, sweet girl, my second ring, 

A token and a pledge I bring; 

With this I wed, till death us part. 

Thy riper virtues to my heart ; 

Those virtues which, before untried, 

The wife has added to the bride — 

Those virtues whose progressive claim, 

Endearing wedlock's very name. 
My soul enjoys, my song approves, 
For conscience' sake as well as love's. 

For why ? They teach me hour by hour 
Honour's high thought, affection's power. 
Discretion's deed, sound judgment's sentence, 
And teach me all things — but repentance. 

Samuel Bishop. 



272 



CXCVII. Home J^ J^ J^ Jt, 

npWO birds within one nest ; 
^ Two hearts within one breast ; 
Two spirits in one fair, 
Firm league of love and prayer, 

Together bound for aye, together blest. 

An ear that waits to catch 

A hand upon the latch ; 

A step that hastens its sweet rest to win, 

A world of care without, 

A world of strife shut out, 
A world of love shut in. 

Dora GrecnwelL 



27S 



N -y / 



WIJXT^T^ 




275 



XIX 



'"T^HEREFORE, Sir Launcelot, I require thee, 
-^ and beseech thee heartily, for all the love 
that ever was between us, that thou never look 
upon mc more in the visage : and furthermore I 
command thee, on God's behalf, right straightly 
that thou forsake my company. . . . For as well 
as I have loved thee, Sir Launcelot, now my heart 
will not serve me to see thee." 

Sir Thomas Malory, " Morle d' Arthur." 




fwirndsir^ 




CXCVIII. Give All to Love J- ^ J- 

GIVE all to love ; 
Obey thy heart ; 
Friends, kindred, days, 
Estate, good-fame. 
Plans, credit, and the Muse, — 
Nothing refuse. 



'Tis a brave master ; 
Let it have scope : 
Follow it utterly, 
Hope beyond hope : 
High and more high 
It dives into noon, 
With wing inspent. 
Untold intent ; 
But it is a god, 
Knows its own path 
And the outlets of the sky. 
279 



It was never for the mean ; 
It requireth courage stout, 
Souls above doubt, 
Valour unbending ; 
Such 'twill reward, — 
They shall return 
More than they were, 
And ever ascending. 

Leave all for love ; 

Yet, hear me, yet, 

One more word thy heart behoved. 

One pulse more of firm endeavour,- 

Keep thee to-day, 

To-morrow, forever. 

Free as an Arab 

Of thy beloved. 

Cling with life to the maid ; 

But when the surprise. 

First vague shadow of surmise 

Flits across her bosom young. 

Of a joy apart from thee. 

Free be she, fancy-free ; 

Nor thou detain her vesture's hem, 

Nor the palest rose she flung 

From her summer diadem. 

Though thou loved her as thyself, 
As a self of purer clay, 
Thougli her parting dims the day, 
280 



stealing grace from all alive ; 
Heartily know, 
When half-gods go, 
The gods arrive. 

R. W. Emerson. 



CXCIX. The King's Cupbearer Ji> , 

'T^HE Oueen is young and the King is old, 
-^ For ;hairs of grey wed tresses of gold ; 
He, garrulous-foul ; she, maiden-cold. 

Than lilies of Eden fairer. 
Woven glances imight intertwine. 
Wordless missives of hers and mine, 
Looks that cross o'er the light o' the wine, — ■ 

But I am the King's cupbearer. 

Rose or amber, the brimming cup 

At the boisterous banquet I proffer up : 

The Queen but sips where the King doth sup, 

Her crown overweights its wearer. 
Once for a moment her fingers slim 
Touched with mine on the carven rim, 
Cool as dew in Ithe twilight dim — 

But I am the King's cupbearer. 

Thro' the shattered gateway the rabble brawls 
The guards lie slain by the blazing walls, 
There is fire and blood in the trampled halls — 
If he be slain they will spare her, 
281 



I might carry her far to a love-bright land . . 
But I drink to the dregs. Here, sword in hand, 
For his last defence, at his door I stand, — 
For I am the King's cupbearer. 

May Byron. 



CC. The Last Ride Together J^ Jt jt, 

T SAID — Then, dearest, since 'tis so, 
■^ Since now at length my fate I know, 
Since nothing all my love avails, 
Since all, my life seemed meant for, fails, 

Since this was written and needs must be — 
My whole heart rises up to bless 
Your name in pride and thankfulness ! 
Take back the hope you gave, — I claim 
Only a memory of the same, 
And this beside, if you will not blame, 

Your leave for one more last ride with me. 

My mistress bent that brow of hers ; 
Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs 
When pity would be softening through, 
Fixed me a breathing-while or two 

With life or death in the balance : right ! 
The blood replenished me again ; 
My last thought was at least not vain : 
I and my mistress, side by side 
Shall be together, breathe and ride, 
282 



So, one day more am I deified. 

Who knows but the world may end to-night ? 

Hush ! if you saw some western cloud 

All billowy-bosomed, over-bowed 

By many benedictions — sun's 

And moon's and evening-star's at once — 

And so, you, looking and loving best, 
Conscious grew, your passion drew 
Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too, 
Down on you, near and yet more near. 
Till flesh must fade for heaven was here ! — 
Thus leant she and lingered — joy and fear ! 

Thus lay she a moment on my breast. 

Then we began to ride. My soul 
Smoothed itself out, a long-cramped scroll 
Freshening and fluttering in the wind. 
Past hopes already lay behind. 

What need to strive with a life awry ? 
Had I said that, had I done this. 
So might I gain, so might I miss. 
Might she have loved me ? just as well 
She might have hated, who can tell ! 
Where had I been now if the worst befell 

And here we are riding, she and I. 

Fail I alone, in words and deeds ? 
Why, all men strive and who succeeds ? 
We rode ; it seemed my spirit flew 
283 



Saw other regions, cities new, 

As the world rushed by on either side. 
I thought, — All labour, yet no less 
Bear up beneath their unsuccess. 
Look at the end of work, contrast 
The petty done, the undone vast, 
This present of theirs with the hopeful past ! 

I hoped she would love me ; here we ride. 

What hand and brain went ever paired ? 
What heart alike conceived and dared ? 
What act proved all its thought had been ? 
What will but felt the fleshly screen ? 

We ride and I see her bosom heave. 
There's many a crown for who can reach. 
Ten lines, a statesman's life in each ! 
The flag stuck on a heap of bones, 
A soldier's doing! what atones? 
They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones. 

My riding is better, by their leave. 

What does it all mean, poet ? Well, 
Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell 
What we felt only; you expressed 
You hold things beautiful the best. 

And pace them in rhyme so, side by side. 
Tis something, nay 'tis much : but then, 
Have you yourself what's best for men ? 
Are you — poor, sick, old ere your time — 
Nearer one whit your own sublime 
284 



Than wc who never have turned a rhyme ? 
Sing, riding's a joy ! For me, I ride. 

And yoii, great sculptor — so, you gave 
A score of years to Art, her slave, 
And that's your Venus, whence we turn 
To yonder girl that fords the burn ! 

You acquiesce, and shall I repine ? 
What, man of music, you grown grey 
With notes and nothing else to say. 
Is this your sole praise from a friend, 
*' Greatly his opera's strains intend, 
"But in music we know how fashions end !" 

I gave my youth ; but we ride, in fine. 

Who knows what's fit for us ? Had fate 
Proposed bliss here should sublimate 
My being — had I signed the bond — 
Still one must lead some life beyond, 

Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried. 
This foot once planted on the goal, 
This glory-garland round my soul, 
Could I descry such ? Try and test ! 
I sink back shuddering from the quest. 
Earth being so good, would heaven seem best ? 

Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride. 

And 5^et — she has not spoke so long ! 
What if heaven be that, fair and strong 
At life's best, with our eyes upturned 
285 



Whither life's flower is first discerned, 
We, fixed so, ever should so abide ? 
What if we still ride on, we two 
With life for ever old yet new, 
Changed not in kind but in degree, 
The instant made eternity, — 
And heaven just prove that I and she 
Ride, ride together, for ever ride ? 

Robert Browning. 



CCI. The Ever-fixed Mark J^ J^ ^ 

T ET me not to the marriage of true minds 

-*— ' Admit impediments. Love is not love 

Which alters when it alteration finds. 

Or bends with the remover to remove : 

O, no ! it is an ever-fixed mark 

That looks on tempests and is never shaken ; 

It is the star to every wandering bark. 

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be 

taken. 
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and 

cheeks 
Within his bending sickle's compass come ; 
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, 
But bears it out even to the edge of doom. 
If this be error and upon me proved, 
I never writ, nor no man ever loved, 

IV i Ilia ni SJiak esp ca re. 
286 



ecu. One Way of Love J- J' 

A LL June I bound the rose in sheaves. 
■'- ^ Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves 
And strew them where Pauhne may pass. 
She will not turn aside ? Alas ! 
Let them lie. Suppose they die ? 
The chance was they might take her eye. 

How many a month I strove to suit 
These stubborn fingers to the lute ! 
To-day I venture all I know. 
She will not hear my music ? So ! 
Break the string ; fold music's wing : 
Suppose Pauline had bade me sing ! 

My whole life long I learned to love. 

This hour my utmost art I prove 

And speak my passion — heaven or hell ? 

She will not give me heaven ? 'Tis well ! 

Lose who may — I still can say, 

Those who win heaven, blest are they ! 

Robert Browning. 



287 



XX. Faded Leaves and Withered 

Flowers 

Ashes of Love. 



!89 



XX 

"pOR, like as winter rasure doth always rase and 
^ deface green summer : so fareth it by unstable 
love in a man, and in woman, for in many persons 
there is no stability. . . . Wherefore, I liken love 
nowadays unto summer and winter : for like as one 
is hot and the other cold, so fareth love nowadays. 
. . . This is no stability : but the old love was not so. 
Sir Thomas Malory, " Morte d'Arlhur." 




CCIII. Separation 



J' 



^ 



STOP '.—not to me at this bitter departing, 
Speak of the sure consolations of Time ! 
Fresh be the wound, still renewed be its smarting. 

So but thy image endure in its prime. . . . 
Then, when we meet, and thy look strays toward 
me, 
Scanning my face and the changes wrought 
there, 
Who^ let me say, is this Stranger regards me, 

With the grey eyes and the lovely brown hair? 

Matthew Arnold. 

CCIV. When we Two Parted J^ Ji Ji 



W 



HEN we two parted 
In silence and tears, 
Half broken-hearted. 
To sever for years. 

The Garden of Love. 29 1 



Pale grew thy cheek and cold, 

Colder thy kiss ; 
Truly that hour foretold 

Sorrow to this. 

The dew of the morning 

Sunk chill on my brow — 
It felt like the warning 

Of what I feel now. 
Thy vows are all broken, 

And light is thy fame ; 
I hear thy name spoken, 

And share in its shame. 

They name thee before me, 

A knell to mine ear ; 
A shudder comes o'er me — 

Why wert thou so dear ? 
They know not I knew thee. 

Who knew thee too well : — 
Long, long shall I rue thee, 

Too deeply to tell. 

In secret we met — 

In silence I grieve, 
That thy heart could forget, 

Thy spirit deceive. 
If I should meet thee. 

After long years. 
How should I greet thee ? — 

With silence and tears. 

, Lord Byron. 

292 



CCV. In a Year J' J> ^ J' ^ 

NEVER any more 
While I live, 
Need I hope to see his face 

As before. 
Once his love grown chill, 

Mine may strive : 
Bitterly we re-embrace, 
Single still. 

II. 

Was it something said, 

Something done, 
Vexed him ? was it touch of hand. 

Turn of head ? 
Strange ! that very way 

Love begun : 
I as little understand 

Love's decay. 

III. 

When I sewed or drew, 

I recall 
How he looked as if I sung, 

— Sweetly too. 
If I spoke a word. 

First of all 
Up his cheek the colour sprung. 

Then he heard. 
293 



Sitting by my side, 

At my feet, 
So he breathed the air I breathed 

Satisfied ! 
I, too, at love's brim 

Touched the sweet : 
I would die if death bequeathed 

Sweet to him. 

V. 

" Speak, I love thee best ! " 

He exclaimed, 
" Let my love thy own foretell ! " 

I confessed : 
" Clasp my heart on thine 

" Now unblamed, 
" Since upon thy soul as well 

" Hangeth mine !" 

VI. 

Was it wrong to own, 

Being truth ? 
Why should all the giving prove 

His alone ? 
I had wealth and ease, 

Beauty, youth : 
Since my lover gave me love, 

I gave these. 
294 



VII. 

That was all I meant, 

— To be just, 
And the passion I had raised, 

To content. 
Since he chose to change 

Gold for dust, 
If I gave him what he praised 

Was it strange ? 

VIII. 

Would he loved me yet. 

On and on, 
While I found some way undreamed 

— Paid my debt ! 
Gave more life and more, 

Till, all gone, 
He should smile "She never seemed 

" Mine before. 

IX. 

"What, she felt the while, 

"Must I think? 
"Love's so different with us men." 

He should smile : 
" Dying for my sake — 

" White and pink ! 
" Can't we touch these bubbles then 

"But they break?" 
295 



X. 

Dear, the pang is brief, 

Do thy part, 
Have thy pleasure ! How perplexed 

Grows belief ! 
Well, this cold clay clod 

Was man's heart : 

Crumble it, and what comes next ? 

Is it God ? 

Robert Browning. 

CCVI. When Passion's Trance is Overpast 

T^^HEN passion's trance is overpast, 

'^ * If tenderness and truth could last. 
Or live, whilst all wild feelings keep 
Some mortal slumber, dark and deep, 
I should not weep, I should not weep ! 

It were enough to feel, to see, 

Thy soft eyes gazing tenderly, 

And dream the rest— and burn and be 

The secret food of fires unseen, 

Couldst thou but be as thou hast been. 

After the slumber of the year 
The woodland violets re-appear ; 
All things revive in field or grove. 
And sky and sea, but two, which move 
And form all others, — jife, and love. 

P, B. Shelley. 
• 296 



CCVII. In a Drear-nighted December J' 

T N a drear-nighted December, 
-■■ Too happy, happy tree, 
Thy branches ne'er remember 
Their green fehcity : 
The north cannot undo them. 
With a sleety whistle through them ; 
Nor frozen thawings glue them 
From budding at the prime. 



In a drear-nighted December, 
Too happy, happy brook, 
Thy bubblings ne'er remember 
Apollo's summer look ; 
But with a sweet forgetting, 
They stay their crystal fretting. 
Never, never petting 

About the frozen time. 



Ah ! would 'twere so with many 

A gentle girl and boy ! 
But were there ever any 

Writh'd not at passed joy ? 

To know the change and feel it. 

When there is none to heal it, 

Nor numbed sense to steal it. 

Was never said in rhyme. 

John Keats. 
297 



CCVIII. The Time will Come ^ J> 

'T^HE time will come — some day, some day, not 
■^ now — 

When you will kneel and weep without my gate 
In bitter anguish for each broken vow 
That fell as berries from the faded bough, 

But I shall answer you, It is too late. 

The time will come — not now, some day, some 
day — 

When you will clasp the threshold of my door. 
Entreating only a moment there to stay ; 
And I perchance a word or two may say — 

But not the words I said to you before. 

The time will come — some day, be it soon or 
late— 
When you shall stand, a shuddering soul un- 
shriven. 
And crave one sign of me, ere God's high gate 
May ope — and I shall scorn you where you wait — 
Endlessl)' loved — endlessly unforgiven ! 

May Byron. 

CCIX. A Parting J^ J^ J^ J^ J^ 

SINCE there's no help, come, let us kiss and 
part, 
Nay, I have done, you get no more of me ; 
And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart, 
And thus so cleanly I myself can free : 
298 



Shake hands, for ever cancel all our vows. 

And when we meet at any tmie again, 
Be it not seen in either of our brows 

That we one jot of former love retain. 

Now, at the last gasp of Love's latest breath. 

When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies 
When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death. 

And Innocence is closing up his eyes. 
Now, if thou would' st, when all have given him 
over, — 
From death to life thou might'st him yet re- 
cover ! 

Michael Drayton. 

CCX. A Dead March J^ Jt J^ J^ 

T) E hushed, all voices and untimely laughter ! 
-*-^ Let no least word be lightly said 
In the awful presence of the Dead, 
That slowly, slowly, this way comes, — 
Arms piled on coffin, comrades marching after, 
Colours reversed, and muffled drums. 

Be bared, all heads ! feet, the procession follow. 
Throughout the stilled and sorrowing town ; 
Weep, woeful eyes, and be cast down ; 
Tread softly, till the bearers stop 
Under the cypress in the shadowy hollow. 
While last light fades o'er mountain-top. 
299 



Lay down your burden here, whose life hath 
journeyed 
Afar, and where ye may not wot ; 
Some Uttle while around this spot 
Be dirges sung and prayers low-said. 
Dead leaves disturbed, and clammy earth upturned, 
Then in his grave dead Love is laid. 

Fling them upon him — withered aspirations, 
And battered hopes and broken vows ; 
He was the last of all his house, 
Has left behind no kith nor kin — 
His bloodstained arms and faded decorations, 
His dinted helmet — throw them in ! 

And all the time the twilight skies are turning 
To sullen ash and leaden grey — 
Cast the sods o'er him, come away, 
In vain upon his name you call. 
Though you all night should cry with bitter 
yearning, 
He would not heed nor hear at all. 

Pass homewards now, in musing melancholy, 
To find the house enfilled with gloom, 
And no lights lit in any room. 
And stinging herald-drops of rain. 
Choke up your empty heart with anguish wholly, 
For Love will never rise again. 

M. C. Gillington, 
300 



XXI. A Bench in a Sunny Corner 

Wedded Lovers Growing old Together 



301 



XXI 

T^OR it is to be considered that this passion of 
^ which we speak, though it begin with the 
young, yet forsakes not the old, or rather suffers 
no one who is truly its servant to grow old, but 
makes the aged participators of it, not less than 
the tender maiden, though in a different and nobler 
sort. 

R. W. Emerson, " Love.'' 



-mm- 





CCXI. Love's House 



J' 



OH, in Love's emerald house 
Of emerald chestnut boughs, 
The brown wife broods upon blue eggs and dear,. 
Nor finds the gold days long, 
Hearing her true Love's song 
Of love and wedding in the sweet o' the year. 

And in Love's golden house 
Of golden chestnut boughs, 

The brown bird to his sweet sings wild and clear ; 
Though little ones are gone. 
The true Love lingers on, 

For two old lovers in the fall o' the year. 

KatJiarinc Tynan. 

CCXI I. Wrinkles J> J' J' J' ^ 

WHEN Helen first saw i wrinkles in her face 
('Twas when some fifty long had settled 
there 
And intermarried and brancht off aside), 
She threw herself upon her couch, and wept ; 
303 



On this side hung her head, and over that 
Listlessly she let fall the faithless brass 
That made the men as faithless. 

But when you 
Found them, or fancied them, and would not hear 
That they were only vestiges of smiles. 
Or the impression of some amorous hair 
Astray from cloistered curls and roseate band, 
Which had been lying there all night perhaps 
Upon a skin so soft. . . . No, no, you said, 
Sure, they arc coming, yes, are come, are here. . . 
Well, and what matters it . . . while you are too ! 
Walter Savage Landot. 

CCXIII. The Refuge J^ J^ J^ J^ 

"\17HEN that whereby you wrought your charms 

^ * Hath faded, as it must : 
When Beauty's arsenal of arms 

Lies ruined in the dust, — 
When wrinkles show where smiles have been, 

And grey hairs follow gold, — 
Then, then, while all your suitors fiee, 
Come, Phyllida, O come to me, 
And dwell my soul's most sovereign queen, 

Even as you were of old ! 

For sparkling eyes and glowing lips 

Are but' your outward show : 
When these shall suffer Time's eclipse. 

Yourself remains below : 
304 



Yourself, more sweet than thousand springs, 

No winter can destroy : 
Then, then, when Hghter lovers flee, 
Come, Phyllida, O come to me, 
And crown me king of all the kings 

That ever looked on joy ! 

Maurice Clare. 

CCXIV. Autumnal Beauty J- J' ^ 

"\ T O spring, nor summer's beauty, hath such 
-'- ^ grace 

As I have seen in one autumnal face. 
If 'twere a shame to love, here 'twere no shame, 

Affections here take Reverence's name, 
Were her first years the golden age ; that's true 

But now she's gold oft tried, yet ever new. 
That was her torrid and inflaming time ; 

This is her habitable tropic clime. 
Fair eyes ! who asks more heat than comes from 
hence, 

He in a fever wishes pestilence. 
Call not these wrinkles graves; if graves they 
were, 

They were Love's graves, or else he is nowhere. 
Yet lies not Love dead here, but here doth sit, 

Vow'd to this trench, like an anachorit, 
Here dwells he ; though he sojourn everywhere 

In progress, yet his standing house is here ; 
Here where still evening is, not noon, nor night, 
305 



Where no voluptuousness, yet all delight. 
If we love things long nought, age is a thing 

Which we are fifty years in compassing ; 
If transitory things which soon decay, 

Age must be loveliest at the latest day. 

John Doiiiie. 



CCXV. John Anderson, My Jo ^ 

JOHN ANDKKSON, my jo, John, 
J When we were fust acquent, 
Your locks were like the raven. 

Your bonnie brow was brent ; 
Hut now your brow is held, John, 

Your locks are like the snavv ; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 

Jolin Anderson, my jo, 

John Anderson, my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither ; 
And monie a canty day, John, 

We've had wi' ane anither : 
Now we maun totter down, John, 

Pjut hand in hand we'll go ; 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson", my jo. 

Robcii Burns. 
306 



CCXVI. To Biancha J' J- J' ^ 

WHEN age or chance has made me blind, 
So that the path I cannot find ; 
And when my falls and stumblings are 
More than the stones i' th' street by far; 
Go thou afore, and I shall well 
Follow thy perfumes by the smell ; 
Or be my guide, and I shall be 
Led by some light that flows from thee. 

Robert Herrick. 



CCXVI I. Unchanging Love J> J' J' 



B 



ELIEVE me, if all those endearing young 
charms, 

Which I gaze on so fondly to-day. 
Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my 
arms, 
Like fairy-gifts fading away, 
Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment 
thou art. 
Let thy loveliness fade as it will. 
And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart, 
Would entwine itself verdantly still. 

O, it is not while beauty and youth are thine own, 
And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear, 

That the fervour and faith of a soul can be known. 

To which time will but make thee more dear ; 

307 



No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets, 

But as truly loves on to the close, 
As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets, 

The same look which she turn'd when he rose. 

Thomas Moore. 

CCXVIII. Immortal Youth J^ J^ J> 

'T^O me, fair friend, you never can be old, 
-*■ For as you were when first your eye I eyed, 
Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold 

Have from the forest shook three summers' pride. 
Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd 

In process of the seasons have I seen, 
There April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd. 

Since when I saw you fresh, which yet are green. 
Ah ! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand. 

Steal from his figure and no pace perceived ; 
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand. 

Hath motion and mine eye may be deceived : 

For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred ; 

Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead. 
William Shakespeare. 

CCXIX. Toujours Amour J* J' J(> 

pRITHEE tell me, Dimple-Chin, 
-*- At what age does Love begin ? 
Your blue eyes have scarcely seen 
Summers three, my fairy queen, 
308 



But a miracle of sweets, 
Soft approaches, sly retreats. 
Show the little archer there. 
Hidden in your pretty hair ; 
When didst learn a heart to win ? 
Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin ! 

"Oh!" the rosy Hps reply, 
"I can't tell 3^ou, if I try. 
'Tis so long I can't remember : 
Ask some younger lass than I ! "^ 

Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face, 

Do ycur heart and head keep pace ? 

When does hoary Love expire, 

When do frosts put out the fire ? 

Can its embers burn below 

All that chill December snow ? 

Care you still soft hands to press,. 

Bonny heads to smooth and bless? 

When does Love give up the chase ? 

Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face! 
" Ah ! " the wise old lips reply, 
" Youth may pass, and strength may die, 
But of Love I can't foretoken : 
Ask some older sage than I ! " 

Edmund Clarence, Siedman, 



309 



CCXX. The Measurement «^ j* ^ 

T T OW do I love thee ? Let me count the ways 
^ ^ I love thee to the depth and breadth and 

height 
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight 
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. 
I love thee to the level of every day's 
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. 
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; 
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. 
I love thee with the passion put to use 
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. 
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose 
With my lost saints,— I love thee with the breath. 
Smiles, tears, of all my life ! — and if God choose, 
I shall but love thee better after death. 

E. B. Browning. 

CCXXI. Remain, ah ! not in Youth Alone 

73 EMAIN, ah ! not in youth alone, 

^^ Tho' youth, where you are, long will stay ; 

But when my summer days are gone, 

And my autumnal haste away. 
"Can I be always by your side?" 

No ; but the hours you can, you must. 
Nor rise at Death's approaching stride. 

Nor go when dust is gone to dust. 

W. S. Landor. 
♦ 310 



XXII. Twilight and Autumn Violets 

Farewells 



XXII 

T T E did not dare to stay. But, throwing himself 
■*- ■*■ into the carriage, lie cast one look towards 
the window of the Dark Ladie, and a moment 
afterwards had left her for ever. He had drunk 
the last drop of the bitter cup, and now lay the 
golden goblet gently down, knowing that he should 
behold it no more. No more ! O, how majestically 
mournful are those words ! They sound like the 
roar of the wind through a forest of pines ! 

H. W. Long^felloiv, ''Hyperion." 




-' ^^v#w; 



CCXXII. Then, Fare Thee Well J. ^ 

' I ^HEN, fare thee well, my own dear love, 
-*- This world has now for us 
No greater grief, no pain above 
The pain of parting thus. 

Dear love ! 
The pain of parting thus. 

Had we but known, since first we met. 

Some few short hours of bliss. 
We might, in numb'ring them, forget 

The deep, deep pain of this. 
Dear love ! 

The deep, deep pain of this. 



But no, alas ! we've never seen 

One glimpse of pleasure's ray. 
But still there came some cloud between, 

And chased it all away. 
Dear love ! 

And chased it all away. 

The Garden of Love. ^j-j O 



Yet, ev'n could those sad moments last, 

Far dearer to my heart, 
Were hours of grief, together past. 

Than years of mirth apart, 
Dear love ! 

Than years of mirth apart. 

Farewell ! our hope was born in fears. 

And nursed 'mid vain regrets ; 
Like winter suns, it rose in tears, 
Like them in tears it sets, 

Dear love ! 
Like them in tears it sets. 

Thomas Moore. 

CCXXIII. Exit e^ e^ e^ e^ e^ 

' I ^HAT time of year thou mayst in me behold 
-*- "When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang 
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold. 
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds 
sang, 
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day 

As after sunset fadeth in the west, 
Which by and by black night doth take away. 
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. 
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire 
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, 
As the death-bed whereon it must expire, 
Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by. 
314 



This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love 

more strong 
To love that well which thou must leave ere 

long. 

William Shakespeare. 



CCXXIV. The Lost Mistress J^ J' ^ 

A LL'S over, then : does truth sound bitter 
-^^^ As one at first believes ? 
Hark, 'tis the sparrows' good-night twitter 
About your cottage eaves ! 

And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly, 

I noticed that, to-day ; 
One day more bursts them open fully, 

— You know the red turns grey. 

To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest ? 

May I take your hand in mine ? 
Mere friends are we, — well, friends the merest 

Keep much that I resign : 

For each glance of that eye so bright and black, 
Though I keep with heart's endeavour, — 

Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back, 
Though it stays in my soul for ever ! — 

Yet I will but say what mere friends say, 
Or only a thought stronger ; 
315 



I will hold your hand but as long as all may, 
Or so very little longer ! 

Robert Browning. 



CCXXV. Highland Mary 



'X/'E banks and braes and streams around 
-'- The castle o' Montgomery ! 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 

Your waters never drumlie : 
There Simmer first unfald her robes. 

And there the langest tarry ; 
For there I took the last Fareweel 

Of my sweet Highland Mary I 

How sweetly bloom'd the gay, green birk, 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom, 
As underneath their fragrant shade 

I clasp'd her to my bosom ! 
The golden Hours on angel wings 

Flew o'er me and my Dearie ; 
For dear to me as light and life, 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

Wi' monie a vow and lock'd embrace 

Our parting was fu' tender ; 
And pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore oursels asunder. 
But, O, fell Death's untimely frost, 

That nipt my flower sae early ! 
316 



Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay 
That wraps my Highland Mary ! 

O, pale, pale now, those rosy lips 

I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly ! 
And clos'd for ay, the sparkling glance 

That dwalt on me sae kindly ! 
And mouldering now in silent dust 

That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! 
But still within my bosom's core 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 

Robed Burns. 

CCXXVI. Love's Secret J^ J^ J^ 

]\J EVER seek to tell thy love, 
-'- ^ Love that never told can be ; 
For the gentle wind doth move 
Silently, invisibly. 

I told my love, I told my love, 

I told her all my heart ; 
Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears, 

Ah ! she did depart ! 

Soon after she was gone from me, 

A traveller came by. 
Silently, invisibly : 

He took her with a sigh. 

William Blake. 
317 



CCXXVII. Four Years .^ ^ ^ ^ 

A T the midsummer, when the hay was down, 
^ ^ Said I, mournfully — My year is at its prime, 
Yet bare lie my meadows, shorn before their 
time, 
In my scorch'd woodlands the leaves are turning 

brown. 
It is the hot midsummer, and the hay is down. 

At the midsummer, when the hay was down. 
Stood she by the streamlet, young and very 

fair, 
With the first white bindweed twisted in her 
hair — 
Hair that drooped like birch-boughs, — all in her 

simple gown. 
For it was midsummer, — and the hay was down. 

At the midsummer, when the hay was down, 
Crept she, a willing bride, close into my breast : 
Low-piled the thunder-clouds had drifted to the 
west — 
Red-eyed, out glared the sun, like knight from 

leaguer'd town, 
Tliat eve in high midsummer, when the hay was 
down. 

It is midsummer — all the hay is down ; 
Close to her bosom press I dying eyes, 
318 



Praying, ''God shield thee till we meet in 
Paradise ! " 
Bless her in Love's name who was my brief life's 

crown, — 
And I go at midsummer, when the hay is down. 

Dinah M. Midock, 



CCXXVIII. The Sailing of the Sword J' 

ACROSS the empty garden-beds, 
When the Sword went out to sea, 
I scarcely saw my sisters' heads 

Bowed each beside a tree. 
I could not see the castle leads, 
When the Sword went out to sea, 

Alicia wore a scarlet gown, 

When the Sword went out to sea, 

But Ursula's was russet brown : 
For the mist we could not see 

The scarlet roofs of the good town, 
Whe7i the Sword went out to sea. 

Green holly in Alicia's hand. 
When the Sword went out to sea; 

With sere oak-leaves did Ursula stand ; 
O ! yet alas for me ! 

I did but bear a peel'd white wand. 
When the Sword went out to sea. 



O, russet brown and scarlet bright, 
W/ien I he Sword ivcni out to sea, 

My sisters wore ; I wore but white : 
Red, brown, and white, are three ; 

Three damozels ; each had a knight, 
When the Sword ivcnt out to sea. 

Sir Robert shouted loud, and said, 
When the Sword went out to sea, 

" Alicia, while I see thy head. 
What shall I bring for thee?" 

" O, my sweet lord, a ruby red : " 
The Sword went out to sea. 

Sir Miles said, while the sails hung down, 
Whe7i the S^vord went out to sea, 

'' Oh, Ursula ! while I see the town, 
What shall I bring for thee?" 

" Dear knight, bring back a falcon brown :" 
The Siivrd ivcnt out to sea. 

But my Roland, no word he said 
When the Sivord went out to sea, 

But only turn'd away his head, — 
A quick shriek came from me : 

" Come back, dear lord, to your white maid ! "■ 
TJie Sword went out to sea. 

The hot sun bit the garden-beds. 
When the Sword came back from sea; 

Beneath an apple-tree our heads 
Stretched out toward the sea ; 
320 



Grey glcam'd the thirsty castle leads, 
When the Sword came back from sea. 

Lord Robert brought a ruby red, 
When the Sivord came back from sea ; 

He kissed Alicia on the head : 
" I am come back to thee ; 

'Tis time, sweet love, that we were wed, 
Now the Sivord is back from sea !" 

Sir Miles, he bore a falcon brown. 
When the Sivord came back from sea ; 

His arms went round tall Ursula's gown 
" What joy, O love, but thee ? 

Let us be wed in the good town, 
Noiv the Sword is back from sea ! " 

My heart grew sick, no more afraid. 
When the Sword came back from sea ; 

Upon the deck a tall white maid 
Sat on Lord Roland's knee ; 

His chin was press'd upon her head. 
When the Sword came back from sea ! 

William Morris. 



CCXXIX. A Valediction J' J. 



G 



OD be with thee, my beloved, — God be with 

thee ! 
Else alone thou goest forth. 
321 



Thy face unto the north, — 
Moor and pleasance, all around thee and beneath 
thee, 

Looking equal in the snow ! 

While I who try to reach thee, 

Vainly follow, vainly follow, 

With the farewell and the hollo. 

And cannot reach thee so. 

Alas ! I can but teach thee — 
God be with thee, my beloved, — God be with thee! 

Can I love thee, my beloved ? — can I love thee ? 
And is this like love, to stand 
With no help in my hand, 
When strong as death I fain would watch above 
thee ? 
My love-kiss can deny 
No tear that falls beneath it : 
Mine oath of love can swear thee 
From no ill that comes near thee, — 
And thou diest while thou breathe it, 
And / — I can but die ! 
May God love thee, my beloved, — may God love 
thee ! 

E. B. Browning. 

CCXXX. We Two Together Jk J> J^ 

OHINE ! shine! shine! 

^^ Pour down your warmth, great sun ! 

While we bask, we two together. 

-^22 



Two together ! 

Winds blow south or winds blow north, 
Day come white, or day come black. 
Home, or rivers and mountains from home, 
Singing all time, minding no time, 
While we two keep together. . . 

. . . Soothe ! soothe ! soothe ! 

Close on its wave soothes the wave behind. 

And again another behind embracing and lapping, 

every one close. 
But my love soothes not me, not me. 

Low hangs the moon, it is late. 
It is lagging— O I think it is heavy with love, 
with love. 

O madly the sea pushes upon the land, 
With love, with love. 

O night ! do I not see my love fluttering out 

among the breakers ? 
What is that little black thing I see there in the 

white ? 

Loud ! loud ! loud ! 

Loud I call to you, my love ! 

High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves, 
Surely you must know who is here, is here, 
You must know I am, my love. 
323 



^ 



Low-hanging moon ! 

What is that dusky spot in your brown yellow ! 

O it is the shape, the shape of my mate ! 

O moon, do not keep her from me any longer. 

Land ! land ! land ! 

Whichever way I turn, O I think you could give 

me my mate back again if you only would. 
For I am almost sure I see her dimly whichever 

way I look. 

O rising stars ! 

Perhaps the one I want so much will rise, will 
rise with some of you. 



O throat ! O trembling throat ! 
Sound clearer through the atmosphere ! 
Pierce the woods, the earth. 

Somewhere listening to catch you must be the 
one I want. 



Shake out carols ! 

Solitary here, the night's carols ! 

Carols of lonesome love ! death's carols I 

Carols under that lagging, yellow, waning moon ! 

O under that moon where she droops almost down 

into the sea I 
O reckless despairing carols. 
324 



But soft ! sink low ! 
Soft ! let me just murmur, 

And do you wait a moment you husky-nois'd sea, 
For somewhere I believe I heard my mate re- 
sponding to me, 
So faint, I must -be still, be still to listen, 
But not altogether still, for then she might not 
come immediately to me. 

Hither my love ! 

Here I am ! here ! 

With this just-sustained note I announce myself 

to you. 
This gentle call is for you, my love, for you. 

Do not be decoy'd elsewhere, 

That is the whistle of the wind, it is not my 

voice, 
That is the fluttering, the fluttering of the spray. 
Those are the shadows of leaves. 

O darkness ! O in vain ! 

O I am very sick and sorrowful. 

O brown halo in the sky near the moon, drooping 

upon the sea ! 
O troubled reflection in the sea ! 
O throat ! O throbbing heart ! 
And I singing uselessly, uselessly all the night. 
325 



O past ! O happy life ! O songs of joy ! 
In the air, in the woods, over fields, 
Loved ! loved ! loved ! loved ! loved ! 
But my mate no more, no more with me ! 
We two toi^ether no more. 

Walt Whitman, 

CCXXXI. Farewell to Nancy J' Ji* J> 

AE fond kiss, and then we sever ; 
Ae fareweel, and then forever ! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee. 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee, 
Who shall say that Fortune grieves him, 
While the star of hope she leaves him ? 
Me, nae cheerful twinkle lights me ; 
Dark despair around benights mc. 

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, 
Naething could resist my Nancy. 
But to see her, was to love her ; 
Love but her, and love for ever. 
Had we never lov'd sae kindly. 
Had we never lov'd sae blindly, 
Never met — or never parted, 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted ! 

Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest ! 
Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest I 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 
326 



Peace, Enjoyment, Love, and Pleasure ! 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever : 

Ae fareweel, alas ! for ever ! 

Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 

Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 

Robert Burns. 



CCXXXII. Farewell! If Ever Fondest 
Prayer ^ ^ ^ .^ e^ ,^ j* 

PAREWELL ! if ever fondest prayer 
■^ For other's weal availed on high. 
Mine will not all be lost in air, 

But waft thy name beyond the sky. 
'Twerc vain to speak — to weep — to sigh : 
Oh ! more than tears of blood can tell. 
When wrung from Guilt's expiring eye, 
Are in that word — Farewell ! — Farewell ! 

These lips are mute, these eyes are dry ; 

But in my breast and in my brain. 
Awake the pangs that pass not by, 

The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. 
My soul nor deigns nor dares complain, 

Though Grief and Passion there rebel : 
I only know we loved in vain — 

I only feel — Farewell ! — Farewell ! 

Lord Byron. 
327 



XXIII. Evergreens 

Love Stro?ig as Death 



329 



XXIII 

/^N that day which fulfilled the year since my 
^-^ lady had been made of the citizens of eternal 
life, remembering me of her as I sat alone, I betook 
myself to draw the resemblance of an angel upon 
certain tablets. And while I did thus, chancing to 
turn my head, I perceived that some were standing 
beside me to whom I should have given courteous 
welcome. . . . Perceiving whom, I arose for saluta- 
tion, and said, ''Another was with me." 

Dante Alighieri, trans. D. G. Rossetii, 
" The New Life." 




^^^m:-4^^--::m^ 



CCXXXIII. The Blessed Damozel 



'T^HE blessed damozel leaned out 
-*- From the gold bar of Heaven ; 
Her eyes were deeper than the depth 

Of waters stilled at even ; 
She had three lilies in her hand, 

And the stars in her hair were seven. 

Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, 
No wrought flowers did adorn, 

But a white rose of Mary's gift. 
For service meetly worn ; 

Her hair that lay along her back 
Was yellow like ripe corn. 

Her seemed she scarce had been a day 

One of God's choristers ; 
The wonder was not yet quite gone 

From that still look of hers ; 
Albeit to them she left, her day 

Had counted as ten years. 
331 



(To one, it is ten years of years. 

. . . Yet now, and in tliis place, 
Surely she leaned o'er me — her hair 

Fell all about my face. . . . 
Nothing : the autumn-fall of leaves. 

The whole year sets apace.) 



It was the rampart of God's house 

That she was standing on ; 
By God built over the sheer depth 

The which is Space begun ; 
So high, that looking downward thence 

She scarce could see the sun. 



It lies in Heaven, across the flood 

Of ether, as a bridge. 
Beneath, the tides of day and night 

With flame and darkness ridge 
The void, as low as where this earth 

Spins like a fretful midge. 



Around her, lovers, newly met 
'Mid deathless love's acclaims, 

Spoke evermore among themselves 
Their heart -remembered names ; 

And the souls mounting up to God 
Went by her like thin flames. 
332 



And still she bowed herself and stooped 

Out of the circling charm ; 
Until her bosom must have made 

The bar she leaned on warm, 
And the lilies lay as if asleep 

Along her bended arm. 

From the fixed place of Heaven she saw 

Time like a pulse shake fierce 
Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove 

Within the gulf to pierce 
Its path ; and now she spoke as when 

The stars sang in their spheres. 

The sun was gone now ; the curled moon 

Was like a little feather 
Fluttering far down the gulf; and now 

She spoke through the still weather. 
Her voice was like the voice the stars 

Had when they sang together. 

(Ah sweet ! Even now, in that bird's song, 

Strove not her accents there, 
Fain to be hearkened ? When those bells 

Possessed the mid-day air, 
Strove not her steps to reach my side 

Down all the echoing stair ?) 

'* I wish that he were come to me, 
For he will come," she said. 
333 



"Have I not prayed in Heaven? — on earth, 
Lord, Lord, has he not pray'd ? 

Are not two prayers a perfect strength ? 
And shall I feel afraid ? 

"When round his head the aureole clings, 

And he is clothed in white, 
I'll take his hand and go with him 

To the deep wells of light ; 
As unto a stream we will step down, 

And bathe there in God's sight." 

" We two will stand beside that shrine, 

Occult, withheld, untrod. 
Whose lamps are stirred continually 

With prayer sent up to God ; 
And see our old prayers granted, melt 

Each like a little cloud. 

" We two will lie i' the shadow of 

That living mystic tree 
Within whose secret growth the Dove 

Is sometimes felt to be. 
While every leaf that His plumes touch 

Saith His Name audibly. 

" And I myself will teach to him, 

I myself, lying so. 
The songs I sing here ; which his voice 

Shall pause in, hushed and slow, 
334 



And find some knowledge at each pause, 
Or some new thing to know." 

(Alas ! we two, we two, thou say'st ! 

Yea, one wast thou with me 
That once of old. But shall God lift 

To endless unity 
The soul whose likeness with thy soul 

Was but its love for thee ?) 

" We two," she said, " will seek the groves 

Where the lady Mary is, 
With her five handmaidens, whose natnes 

Are five sweet symphonies, 
Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen, 

Margaret and Rosalys. 

" Circlewise sit they, with bound locks 

And foreheads garlanded ; 
Into the fine cloth white Hke flame 

Weaving the golden thread, 
To fashion the birth-robes for them 

Who are just born, being dead. 

"He shall fear, haply, and be dumb 

Then will lay my cheek 
To his, and tell about our love, 

Not once abashed and weak : 
And the dear Mother will approve 

My pride, and let me speak. 
335 



" Herself shall bring us, hand in hand, 
To Him round whom all souls 

Kneel, the clear-ranged unnumbered heads 
Bowed with their aureoles : 

And angels meeting us shall sing 
To tlieir citlierns and citoles. 



" There will I ask of Christ the Lord 

Thus much for him and me : — 
Only to live as once on earth 

With Love, — only to be, 
As then awhile, for ever now 

Together, I and He.' 

She gazed, and listened, and then said. 
Less sad of speech than mild, — 

" All this is when he comes." She ceased, 
The light thrilled towards her, fill'd 

With angels in strong level flight. 
Her eyes prayed and she smil'd. 

(I saw her smile.) But soon their path 

Was vague in distant spheres : 
And then she cast her arms along 

The golden barriers, 
And laid her face between her hands, 
And wept. (I heard her tears.) 

D. G. Rossctti. 
336 



CCXXXIV. At the Mid Hour of Night 

\V the mid hour of nii^ht, when stars are 
weeping, I Hy 
To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm 
in thine eye ; 
And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the 

regions of air, 
To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come 
to me there, 
And tell me our love is remember'd, even in the 
sky ! 

Then I sing the wild song 'twas once such 

pleasure to hear, 
When our voices, commingling, breathed, hke one 
on the ear ; 
And, as Echo far off through the vale my sad 

orison rolls, 
I think. O my love ! 'tis thy voice, from 
the Kingdom of Souls, 
Faintly answering still the notes that once were 

so dear. 

Thomas Moore. 

CCXXXV. Evelyn Hope J' J' ^* 

BEAUTIFUL Evelyn Hope is dead! 
Sit and watch by her side an hour. 
That is her bookshelf, this her bed ; 

She plucked that piece of geranium-ilower. 



Beginning to die too, in the glass ; 

Little has yet been changed, I think : 
The shutters are shut, no light may pass 

Save two long rays thro' the hinge's chink. 

Sixteen years old when she died ! 

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name ; 
It was not her time to love ; beside. 

Her life had many a hope and aim, 
Duties enough and little cares, 

And now was quiet, now astir. 
Till God's hand beckoned unawares, — 

And the sweet white brow is all of her. 



Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope ? 

What, your soul was pure and true, 
The good stars met in your horoscope, 

Made you of spirit, lire and dew — 
And, just because I was thrice as old, 

And our paths in the world diverged so wide. 
Each was nought to each, must I be told ? 

We were fellow mortals, nought beside ? 

No, indeed ! for God above 

Is great to grant, as mighty to make, 

And creates the love to reward the love : 
I claim you still for my own love's sake ! 

Delayed it may be for more lives yet, 

Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few : 
33« 



Much is to learn, much to forget 

Ere the time be come for taking you. 

But the time will come,— at last it will, 

When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I shall say) 
In the lower earth, in the years long still. 

That body and soul so pure and gay ? 
Why your hair was amber, I shall divine, 

And your mouth of your own geranium's red— 
And what would you do with me, in fine, 

In the new life come in the old one's stead. 

I have lived (I shall say) so much since then, 

Given up myself so many times, 
Gained me the gains of various men, 

Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes; 
Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope, 

Either I missed or itself missed me : 
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope ! 

What is the issue ? let us see ! 

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while. 

My heart seemed full as it could hold ! 
There was place and to spare for the frank young 
smile, 
And the red young mouth, and the hair's young 
gold. 
So, hush,— I will give you this leaf to keep : 
See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand ! 
339 



TherC; that is our secret : go to sleep ! 

You will wake, and remember, and understand. 

Robert Browning. 

CCXXXVl. A Spirit Tresent ^ J> ^ 

T V, coming from that unknown sphere 

-^ Where I believe thou art — 

The world unseen which girds our world 

So close, yet so apart, — 
Thy soul's soft call unto my soul 

Electrical could reach, 
And mortal and immortal blend 
In one familiar speech, — 

What wouldst thou say to me ? wouldst ask 

What since did me befall ? 
Or close this chasm of cruel years 

Between us — knowing all ? 
Wouldst love me — thy pure eyes seeing that 

God only saw beside ? 
Oh, love me ! 'Twas so hard to live, 

So easy to have died. 

If while this dizzy whirl of life 

A moment pausing stay'd, 
1 face to face with thee could stand, 

I would not be afraid : 
Not though from heaven to heaven thy feet 

In glad ascent have trod, 
34^ 



While mine took through earth's miry ways 
Their solitary road. 

We could not lose each other. World 

On world piled ever higher 
Would part Hke bank'd clouds, Hghtning-cleft, 

By our two souls' desire. 
Life ne'er divided us ; death tried, 

But could not; love's voice hne 
Call'd luring through the dark— then ceased. 

And I am wholly thine. 

Dinah M. Mulock. 

CCXXXVII. Remembrance ^ ^ ^ 

COLD in the earth— and the deep snow piled 
above thee. 
Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave ! 
Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee, 
Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave ? 

Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover 
Over the mountain, on that northern shore, 

Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves 
cover 
Thy noble heart for ever, ever more? 

Cold in the earth— and fifteen wild Decembers, 
From those brown hills, have melted into spring : 

Faithful indeed the spirit that remembers 
After such years of change and suffering ! 
341 



Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee, 
While the world's tide is bearing me along : 

Other desires and other hopes beset me, 

Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong ! 

No later light has lightened up my heaven. 
No second morn has ever shone for me ; 

All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given, 
All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee. 

But, when the days of golden dreams had 

perished, 

And even Despair was powerless to destroy ; 

Then did I learn how existence could be 

cherished. 

Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy. 

Then did I check the tears of useless passion — 
Weaned my young soul from yearning after 
thine ; 

Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten 
Down to that tomb already more than mine. 

And, even yet, I dare not let it languish. 

Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain ; 
Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish. 
How could I seek the empty world again ? 

• Emily Bronte. 

342 



CCXXXVIII. The Cross Roads ^ J, 

' I ''HERE sits a woman in a lonely place, 
-*- Where All-Souls' twilight ever bends and 
broods : 
With hungry hope and fear upon her face, 

She gazes down those dreamy solitudes, 
There at the cross-roads, peering to and fro, 

Straining her glance athwart the shadows grey. 
Lest any little traveller she might know 
Haply come by that way. 

For long, so long, she has waited : now and then 

A tiny figure looms along the road. 
Shy, scarce-awakened from the world of men. 

Seeking uncertainly its new abode. 
And eagerly she stoops, she scans its eyes, 

Asking some look, some tender answering sign. 
And still she lets it go again, and sighs, 

"Not mine— O God — not mine !" 

But some day, surely, in a golden hour. 

The sweet familiar shape shall be descried. 
Delaying here and there for berry or flower. 

But drawing ever nearer to her side. 
No need of greeting between child and mother. 

When heart on heart is folded close and fast 
In that one clasp, each blended in the other. 

That pays for all the past ! 

May Byron. 
343 



XXIV. Lavender 

Sweet Memories 



345 



XXIV 

"\ T O man ever for^^ot the visitation of that power 
''- ^ to his heart and brain, which created all 
things new . . . when a single tone of one voice 
could make the heart bound, and the most trivial 
circumstance associated with one form is put in the 
amber of memory. . . . For the figures, the motions, 
the words of the beloved object are not like other 
images, written in water, but, as Plutarch said, 
" enamelled in fire." 

R. W. Emerson, " Love." 







"5'' — - -r^ fifes' ^t ^ ,'^. ■.S-S S - -ti— - ■r' ' H 




'- ^.' '^ 



CCXXXIX. The Memory of Love ^ 

REMEMBER then, O Pilgrim ! and beware — 
Thou, with that Memory for a master-key, 
Wilt open Heaven, and be no alien there,— 
For, as thou honourest Love, so will Love 

honour thee. ^ rr ^, . 

Lord Houghton. 

CCXL. You Remain J' ^ ^ ^ 

AS a perfume doth remain 
In the fold where it hath lain, 
So the thought of you remaining 
Deeply folded in my brain. 

Will not leave me : all things leave me : 
You remain. 

Other thoughts may come and go, 
Other moments I may know. 

That shall waft me, in their going. 
As a breath blown to and fro, 

Fragrant memories : fragrant memories 
Come and go. 

347 



Only thoughts of you remain 

In my heart where they have lain, 

Perfumed thoughts of you remaining 
A hid sweetness in my brain. 

Others leave me: all things leave me: 
You remain. 

Author Unknown. 



CCXLI. Sighs and Memories e^ ^ 

nPHAT lady of all gentle memories 
-* Had lighted on my soul;— whose new abode 
Lies now, as it was well ordained of God, 
Among the poor in heart, where Mary is. 
Love, knowing that dear image to be his, 

Woke up within the sick heart sorrow-bow'd. 
Unto the sighs which are its weary load. 
Saying, " Go forth." And they went forth, I wis ; 
Forth went they from my breast that throbbed 
and ached ; 
With such a pang as oftentime will bathe 

Mine eyes with tears when I am left alone. 
And still those sighs which drew the heaviest 
breath 
Came whispering thus : " O noble intellect ! 
It is a year to-day that thou art gone. " 

Dante Alighierl {trans. D. G. Kossciti). 
348 



CCXLII. Parted and Met J- J^ Jt. 

T T E, who for Love has undergone 
-'' ^ The worst that can befall, 
Is happier thousand-fold than one 

Who never loved at all ; 
A grace within his soul has reigned, 

Which nothing else can bring — 
Thank God for all that I have gained, 
By that high suffering ! 

Lord Houghton. 



CCXLII I. Love's Young Dream ^ ^ 

/^H ! the days are gone, when Beauty bright 
^^ My heart's chain wove ; 
When my dream of life from morn till night 
Was love, still love. 
New hope may bloom, 
And days may come, 
Of milder, calmer beam. 
But there's nothing half so sweet in life 

As love's young dream : 
No, there's nothing half so sweet in life 
As love's young dream. 

Though the bard to purer fame may soar. 

When wild youth's past ; 
Though he win the wise, who frown'd before, 
349 



To smile at last ; 
He'll never meet 
A joy so sweet, 
111 all his noon of fame, 
As when first he sung to woman's ear 

His soul-felt flame. 
And, at every close, she blush'd to hear 

The one loved name- 
No — that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot 

Which first love traced ; 
Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot 
On memory's waste. 
'Twas odour fled 
As soon as shed ; 
'Twas morning's winged dream ; 
'Twas a light that ne'er can shine again 

On life's dull stream : 
Oh! 'twas light that ne'er can shine again 

On life's dull stream. 

Thomas Moore. 

CCXLIV. My Kate ^ J^ J^ J^ Jt' 

SHE was not as pretty as women I know, 
And yet all your best, made of sunshine 
and snow. 
Drop to shade, melt to nought in the long-trodden 

ways, 
While she's still remembered on warm and cold 

days, 

—My Kate. 

350 



Her air had a meaning, her movements, a grace. 
You turned from the fairest to gaze on her face ; 
And when you had once seen her forehead and 

mouth, 
You saw as distinctly her soul and her truth. 

— My Kate. 

Such a blue inner light from her eyelids outbroke. 

You looked at her silence and fancied she spoke ; 

When she did, so peculiar yet soft was the tone, 

Though the loudest spoke also, you heard her 

alone, 

— My Kate. 

I doubt if she said to you much that could act 

As a thought or suggestion ; she did not attract 

In the sense of the brilliant or wise ; I infer 

'Twas her thinking of others made you think of 

her, 

—My Kate. 

She never found fault with you, never implied 

You wrong by her right ; and yet men at her side 

Grew nobler, girls purer, as thro' the whole town 

The children were gladder that pulled at her 

j^own, 

—My Kate. 

None knelt at her feet confessed lovers in thrall ; 
They knelt more to God than they used— that was 
all; 

351 



If you praised her as charming, some asked what 

you meant, 

But the charm of her presence was felt where 

she went. 

—My Kate. 

The weak and the gentle, the ribald and rude, 

She took as she found them, and did them all 

good ; 

It always was so with her ; see what you have ! 

She has made the grass greener even here . , 

with her grave, 

—My Kate. 

My dear one ! when thou wast alive with the rest, 
I held thee the sweetest and loved thee the best ; 
And now thou art dead, shall I not take thy part, 
As thy smiles used to do for thyself, my sweet- 
heart, 

—My Kate ! 

E. B. Browning. 

CCXLV. One Day J^ Jt' J^ J^ J' 

T WILL tell you when they met : 
In the limpid days of Spring ; 
Elder boughs were budding yet, 
Oaken boughs looked wintry still. 
But primrose and veined violet 
In the mossful turf were set, 
352 



While meeting birds made haste to sing 
And build with right good will. 

I will tell you when they parted : 

When plenteous Autumn sheaves were brown 

Then they parted heavy-hearted ; 

The full rejoicing sun looked down 

As grand as in the days before ; 

Only they had lost a crown ; 

Only to them those days of yore 

Could come back nevermore. 

When shall they meet ? I cannot tell, 
Indeed, when they shall meet again. 
Except some day in Paradise : 
For this they wait, one waits in pain. 
Beyond the sea of death Love lies 
For ever, yesterday, to-day ; 
Angels shall ask them, ''Is it well?" 
And they shall answer " Yea." 

Christina Rossetii. 

CCXLVI. Rose Aylmer J^ J^ ^ J^ 

A H ! what avails the sceptred race ! 
^ ^ Ah ! what the form divine ! 
What every virtue, every grace ! 
Rose Aylmer, all were thine. 

Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes 
May weep, but never see, 
353 



A night of memories and of sighs 
I consecrate to thee. 

Walter Savage Landor. 

CCXLVII. She Came and Went J^ ^ 

/\ S a twig trembles, which a bird 
^ ^ Lights on to sing, then leaves unbent, 
So is my memory thrilled and stirr'd ; — 
I only know she came and went. 

As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven. 
The blue dome's measureless content. 

So my soul held that moment's heaven ; — 
I only know she came and went. 

As, at one bound, our swift spring heaps 
The orchards full of bloom and scent. 

So clove her May my wintry sleeps ; — 
I only know she came and went. 

An angel stood and met my gaze, 

Through the low doorway of my tent ; 

The tent is struck, the vison stays ; — 
I only know she came and went. 

Oh, when the room grows slowly dim. 

And life's last oil is nearly spent, 
One gush of light these eyes will brim, 
Only to think she came and went. 

y. R. Lowell 
354 



CCXLVIII. My Letters J' J> J' J> 

1\ /fY letters! all dead paper, mute and while, 
^^ ^ And yet they seem alive and quivering 
Against my tremulous hands which loose the 

string 
And let them drop down on my knee to-night. 
This said, — he wished to have me in his sight 
Once, as a friend : this fixed a day in spring 
To come and touch my hand — a simple thing. 
Yet I wept for it ! this the paper's light — 
Said, Dear, / love thee ; and I sank and quailed 
As if God's future thundered on my past. 
This said, / am thine — and so its ink has paled 
With lying at my heart that beat too fast : 
And this — O Love, thy words have ill availed, 
If, what this said, I dared repeat at last ! 

E. B. Browning. 



CCXLIX. Golden Guendolen J> ^ ^ 

' '^pWIXT the sunlight and the shade 
-'- Float up memories of my maid ; 
God, remember Guendolen ! 

Gold or gems she did not wear, 
But her yellow rippled hair. 
Like a veil, hid Guendolen ! 

355 



'Twixt the sunlight and the shade, 
My rough hands so strangely made, 
Folded Golden Guendolen ; 

Hands used to grip the sword-hilt hard, 
Framed her face, while on the sward, 
Tears fell down from Guendolen. 

Guendolen now speaks no word, 
Hands fold round about the sword, 
Now no more of Guendolen. 

Only 'twixt the light and shade 
Floating memories of my maid 
Make me pray for Guendolen. 

Williain Morris. 



CCL. Durisdeer ,^ ..^ »^ e^ e^ 

"V^T^E'LL meet nae mair at sunset when the 
* ^ weary day is dune, 

Nor wander hame thegither by the lee licht o' 
the mune ! 
I'll hear your step nae longer amang the dewy 
corn, 
For we'll meet nae mair, my bonniest, either al 
eve or morn. 

35^^ 



The yellow broom is waving, abune the sunny 
brae, 
And the rowan berries dancing, where the 
sparkling waters play. 
Tho' a' is bright and bonnie, it's an eerie place to 
me. 
For we'll meet nae mair, my dearest, either by 
burn or tree. 

Far up into the wild hills, there's a kirkyard cold 
and still, 
Where the frosts lie ilka morning, and the 
mists hang low and chill. 
And there ye sleep in silence, while I wander 
here my lane, 
Till we meet ance mair in Heaven, never to 
part again ! 

Lady John Scott. 



CCLI. Once Again ^ J- J- 

OTHAT 'twere possible. 
After long grief and pam, 
To tind the arms of my true love 
Round me once again. 

When I was wont to meet her 
In the silent woody places 
By the home that gave me birth, 
357 



We stood tranced in long embraces 
Mixed with liisses sweeter, sweeter 
Than anything on earth. 

A shadow flits before me, 

Not thou, but Hke to thee ; 

Ah, Christ, that it were possible 

For one short hour to see 

The souls we loved, that they might tell us 

What and where they be, 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson. 



CCLII. The Mother's Visits J^ ^ J^ 

T ONG years ago she visited my chamber, 
-*— ^ Steps soft and low, a taper in her hand ; 
Her fond kiss she laid upon my eye-lids, 

Fair as an angel from the unknown land : 
Mother, mother, is it thou I see ? 
Mother, mother, watching over me. 

And yesternight I saw her cross my chamber, 
And soundless as liglit, a palm-branch in her 
hand ; 

35« 



Her mild eyes she bent upon my anguish, 
Cahn as an augel from the blessed land ; 
Mother, mother, is it thou I see ? 
Mother, mother, art thou come for me ? 

Dinah M. Mulock. 



CCLIII. Memory J^ J^ Jt Ji Jt> 

I HAVE a room whereinto no one enters 
Save I myself alone : 

There sits a blessed memory on a throne. 
Where my life centres ; 

While winter comes and goes — oh, tedious 
comer : — 

And while its nip-wind blows ; 

W^hile bloom the bloodless lily and warm rose 
Of lavish summer. 

If any should force entrance he might see there 

One buried yet not dead, 

Before whose face I no more bow my head 
Or bend my knee there ; 

But often in my worn life's autumn weather 
I watch there with clear eyes, 
And think how it will be in Paradise 

When we're together. 

Christina Rossetti. 

359 



CCLIV. The Vista J- J^ J' J- J- 

T CAN recall so well how she would look — 
-*- How, at the very murmur of her dress 
On entering the door, the whole room took 
An air of gentleness. 

That was so long ago ; and yet his eyes 
Had always, afterwards, the look that waits 

And yearns, and waits again, nor can disguise 
Something it contemplates. 

May we imagine it ? the sob, the tears. 
The long sweet shuddering breath ; then, on 
her breast. 
The great, full, flooding sense of endless years 
Of heaven, and her, and rest. 

Author Unk)ioicii. 

CCLV. Echoes and Memories «^ ^ ^ 

1\ /TUSIC, when soft voices die, 
^^ ^ Vibrates in the memory — 
Odours, when sweet violets sicken, 
Live within the sense they quicken. 

Rose-leaves, when the rose is dead. 
Are heaped for the beloved's bed ; 
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, 
Love itself shall slumber on. 

P. B. Shelley. 



UNWIN BROTHERS, LiailTED, PRINTERS, WOKING AND LONDON. 



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